


somewhere a star shines

by Appleface



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Christmas, F/F, Fluff and awkwardness, Snowed In, Winter, as one would expect, héloïse is not keen on christmas, lots of snow, marianne is going to give herself hypothermia at this rate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Appleface/pseuds/Appleface
Summary: A lesson in not trusting weather forecasts. And getting snowed-in with a mysterious woman who doesn’t like Christmas very much.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 152
Kudos: 218





	1. forecast

The forecast tells Marianne there will be light snow. Cold enough for icy breath, a few white flakes in the breeze, but nothing more.

In the morning as she is packing her things into the car, Marianne sees that the windshield is frozen. Icy silver, nearly opaque. Marianne switches on the windshield wipers, and hurries inside, where she heats some water in the kettle, and goes back out to pour it on the glass. Watching the steam rise and the ice melt away. Rivulets of hot water caught by windshield wipers, swishing, mechanical. Heat rolling into Marianne’s face, dampening the bitter air for a passing moment.

\--

She calls Sophie before she goes. Though, Marianne forgot how early it is, and that Sophie sleeps in until 1p.m. on holidays and weekends.

“What?” Sophie picks up after four rings, her voice groggy and mumbled. “Is it Christmas?”

Marianne winces. With her free hand, she is searching through a drawer of hats and scarves. “Not yet. Sorry, did I wake you?”

There is a long, confused pause, fitted with rustling sheets. “Yes,” Sophie answers eventually, indignant but slightly more awake. And, after another beat, “God, Marianne, it’s so early.”

Marianne turns her head away quickly to glance at the clock on the wall, which is five minutes slow. “It’s nine.”

Sophie sighs mournfully, and Marianne hears as she throws herself back onto the mattress. “Nine is too early for Christmas.”

“It’s not Christmas yet,” Marianne picks out a black bobble-hat. She doesn’t recognise it, but it seems good enough. Shoves it in the pocket of her coat and yanks at the tassel of a big red scarf that is poking out from the layers of winter wear. “Anyway, I’m about to head off. Just making sure that everything is good on the other end.”

“You made sure of that yesterday,” Sophie sounds greatly unamused. “You keep asking.”

Marianne rolls her eyes, though Sophie can’t see it. “Well, sorry to be nervous about it, but you didn’t exactly sell your cousin nicely.”

“I just said that some people find her scary!” Sophie protests, still drowsy. And then adds, quickly and certainly, “You won’t be scared of her. You’re about the same height.”

Marianne squints. She pulls the red scarf free from the rest of the pile. “That’s irrelevant,” she awkwardly wraps the scarf around her arm, still one-handed. “I’m taller than Cate Blanchett and I’m still afraid of her.”

“Why are you afraid of Cate Blanchett?” Sophie lunges for an explanation. Then side-tracks herself, “How tall is Cate Blanchett?” Sophie fumbles with the phone a little, and her voice is distant as she shouts away from the receiver, “Alexa! How tall is Cate Blanchett?”

“She’s 1.74 metres,” Marianne shuts the drawer with her hip. “Stop talking to Alexa and reassure me.”

There is a pause, an intake of breath. “Everything is sorted,” says Sophie, in a calming manner. “You’ll barely see Héloise because she’ll be working the whole time. And if anything awkward happens, then you’ll be gone by tomorrow morning and off to see your lovely family, and you and Héloise will never meet again.”

Marianne leans against the wardrobe, and inhales through her nose. Blinking across the room, at the shelves of colourful books on the wall. “Okay,” she says. “Thank you. I’ll text you when I’m at the place, if the internet isn’t too shit.”

“Okay, good,” Sophie pauses, “How do you know how tall Cate Blanchett is?”

“Alright.”

“What’s 1.74 metres in feet?”

“Bye, Sophie.”

“Alexa! What’s –“

Marianne hangs up, smiling.

\--

In the car, Théo calls her. She puts him on speaker and balances the phone on the dashboard, under the crook of the windshield. “How are you?” he asks. “Bored yet?”

Marianne frowns, though he cannot see her. “No,” she says. There is some snow collecting on the hood of the car. Ahead, the city has peeled away, and the French countryside rolls in frosty green and grey. As she drives, half her mind is painting the scenery. Layers of thick oil paint for the hills. Flicking the brush with her thumb for the effect of falling snow. “It’s beautiful out here.”

Théo hums in agreement, though he must be used to it all by now. “Where are you, about?”

“Don’t know,” Marianne admits, “middle of nowhere.” There’s something so freeing in not knowing where you are.

“Do you have directions, though?”

“No, Théo, I’m using echolocation.”

“Hilarious.”

In the background of the call, Marianne hears little, excited voices chattering. She brightens, gripping the steering wheel. “Oh, put them on to me!”

“I don’t want you to crash the car.”

“You worry too much. The roads are clear. I did pass my driver’s test eventually, you know.”

“Eventually,” Théo’s voice is leaden, but Marianne hears fumbling with the phone, and a pair of gushing voices spill in through the receiver.

“Marianne!” says one, a boy. Then there’s a swat, an “Ow, stop!” from the boy, and the phone is grabbed. “Hi auntie Marianne!” squeaks a second voice.

“Zelie, you shouldn’t hit your brother,” says Marianne, trying to give an edge to her voice.

“Sorry,” replies Zelie, who doesn’t sound very sorry at all.

“How are you, Marianne?” asks the boy’s voice, louder now.

“I’m very well, Nino, thank you for asking! Excited to see you both.”

“Are you nearly here?” Zelie sounds anxious.

“No, not quite. I’m taking a break halfway.”

“Why?” a chorus of disappointment from both niece and nephew.

“Because otherwise I’d fall asleep at the wheel,” Marianne blinks ahead at the road. “It’s twelve hours to your new house from Paris, you know?”

“It’s not really a new house anymore,” says Nino, but Zelie is speaking over him already. “Well, you have to come really fast!” she chirps, “We’re definitely getting a kitten this year.”

There is some mumbling from Théo, who wrestles the phone from his children’s grasp. “Say bye-bye to auntie Marianne now.”

They do as they’re told, and Marianne hears them scamper away as Théo brings the phone back to his ear with a sigh.

“They love me,” says Marianne brightly. “I always wanted to be the cool, lesbian wine aunt. Nino has gotten so polite all of a sudden.”

“Yes, and Zelie is still a menace.”

“They’re getting a kitten, are they?”

“I genuinely don’t know where she got that from.”

They talk about the kids a little while longer. Marianne turns a bend into further icy skies. The reception starts to dwindle as Théo cuts out.

“-should end now anyway,” his voices comes crackling back after a moment. “I’ll see you here.”

“Yeah, I’ll try call you from the place I’m staying overnight.”

“Oh, good luck with the scary writer woman.”

Marianne wrinkles her nose. “Thank you.”

They say their goodbyes.

\--

Marianne’s cramps act up halfway there, so she stops and buys a sandwich and a chocolate bar to eat in the car. The heating isn’t much help so she pulls the bobble hat out of her pocket and pulls it down over the tips of her blushing ears. The chocolate helps a little, and she keeps driving.

\--

Seven hours in and the light is already being sapped. December bites, swallows the sun. The moon is large and beautiful out here, bleaching the long fields silver-dark. The snow is falling still, heavier than anticipated, but not by much.

Marianne turns off into a smaller road, down towards a town and further along. Watching kids in little houses trying to build snow-people with tiny scraps. Catching snowflakes on outstretched tongues. Parents in the doorway, urging them inside. They’ll catch their death.

And away from all that, down a slope and around a bend, is a cottage out of a fairy-tale. Nestled in snow-dappled fir trees. A chimney puffing white smoke against a dark blue sky. Somebody’s inside – yellow light floods from the windows, onto the gravel and the icy grass.

Marianne parks and twists all her stiff limbs. She pulls the red scarf around her marble throat, and the hat snug around her ears. Tufts of short hair poke out, trapped by the brim. She steps out, hauling her own small bag out from the seat beside her. The things in the back – presents for family – can stay. Marianne holds the bag tight at the handle and ambles up to the door – peeling red paint, faded with time and sun. A knocker, which Marianne uses before realising there is a doorbell to her left. Before she can overthink if she should press the doorbell too or if knocking was enough, the door swings inwards.

She is tall. As tall as Marianne. Though, Marianne might have an advantage now with the help of the hat. Héloise looks nothing like Sophie and everything like – everything like what? Everything like nothing Marianne has really seen before. Pale hair, dark eyebrows, eyes that are immediately searching, clambering all over Marianne in an instant before stirring momentarily on her hat.

And then Héloise looks down, at Marianne’s face. Eyes on eyes. “There’s a doorbell,” she says.

“Yeah,” Marianne agrees. And then points to the doorbell, which is a stupid thing to do, because obviously Héloise knows where the doorbell is. “I realised that after.”

Héloise doesn’t nod or do anything normal. Instead, her eyes flick back up to Marianne’s hat for a moment, and she flushes like dragon fruit before turning completely away, striding down a short corridor.

Marianne stares after her, and steps in, snow dusting the welcome mat. Héloise hasn’t exactly gone anywhere, and is more just hovering at the end of the hall, by a long window, not looking in Marianne’s direction.

Marianne shuts the door, uncertain. “Sophie said this would be alright, if I stayed?” she asks.

Héloise glances back, briefly at Marianne’s face, and then up at her hat again. What is it – is it the bobble? Is she not a fan of bobble hats?

After what seems like a lifetime: “It’s alright,” Héloise says in a dazed manner, refocusing on Marianne’s face midway through her sentence, and then turning back to stare at the wall.

Marianne tries to cool her flare of annoyance, instead scuffing her shoes on the mat, and toeing them off, kicking them under a radiator. Héloise is very determinately not looking at Marianne, so she makes a point of asking: “Could I take a shower?”

Héloise turns back around. “Sure,” she looks at the banister as she walks down towards it. Turning to climb upstairs and not stopping to see that Marianne is following her. Héloïse is trailing her fingers along the wall as she goes. Marianne pulls her bag up the stairs, her shoulder whining with the effort.

“You’re staying in there,” Héloise says numbly, before Marianne has gotten to the top. She is gesturing towards a closed door at the end of the hall. Then turns her head to face the other way. “Bathroom’s there. It takes a while for the water to get warm.”

She turns around, and takes in Marianne’s face intently. Something indescribable between her eyebrows. And then, just as Marianne is hoping it won’t happen, Héloise’s pale eyes flick up to the bobble hat. And with that, she darts around Marianne and down the stairs, light on her feet, ghostlike. Vanishing around the corner.

Vaguely annoyed by all this, Marianne leaves her things in her room, bringing pyjamas and slippers and a tampon. She tries to text Sophie and Théo but the messages fail to send. Her irritation doesn’t last all that long, as Marianne enters the bathroom and yanks the scarf off from around her neck, leaving it in a corner of the room. Marianne is about to take off her jumper when she remembers the hat, and turns to face herself in the mirror just before she pulls it off by the bobble.

Marianne freezes. Pales. Soaked by horror. No. No, no.

She forgot about this hat. On one side it looks regular, black with a bobble. On the other side, the side that is facing out proudly, easily legible from Marianne’s head, it reads in block white letters: _PUSSY IS GOD._ With a halo on top of the ‘O’.

\--

The shower can’t quite scrub the embarrassment off of Marianne’s skin. So she takes a few deep breaths, intent on explaining herself to Héloise.

It’s a small house, so Marianne finds Héloise in the kitchen when she wanders downstairs, wet hair and warm pyjamas. The hat firmly buried at the bottom of her bag. Héloise has her back to Marianne and her pale hair falling out of a bun. She is mixing something in a rice cooker – rice, probably. Genius observations over here. Marianne kind of wants to smash her own face into the doorframe but instead takes a breath. “Héloise?”

Héloise turns around, and Marianne can see relief bleed through her features when she glances up to see the hat gone from Marianne’s head. She turns her gaze to Marianne’s face. And stares.

Marianne opens her mouth and lets her jaw hang for a few moments before getting the words out. “It was from a bachelorette party,” she says. And, upon second thought, points to the top of her head. “I forgot… when I picked it out this morning, I didn’t notice that it said that,” she clears her throat, drops her hands. “I thought it was just a black bobble hat.”

Héloise has stopped stirring, spoon poised between pale fingers. After a long, unbearable moment of consideration, she says: “What kind of bachelorette party is that?”

Fair question. “A lesbian one,” Marianne answers.

Héloise nods, not taking her eyes away. “Right,” and turns back to the rice cooker. “Are you hungry?”

She is. But would also very much like to never see Héloise again in her life out of embarrassment, so instead she says: “No, I ate on the way. I might have something later. I’ll just… go…”

“Yeah. Cool,” Héloise interrupts her misery.

Marianne takes the opportunity to scamper away.

\--

She hides in her room like a teenager until evening and goes down to make a cheese sandwich and eat it awkwardly at the table in the dark. No sign of Héloise.

Only, on her way back up, Marianne notices light crawling out from under Héloise’s door.

Working, Sophie said. All alone, through the holidays?

Late deadlines, Marianne supposes. And family will probably come and see her, won’t they?

Not that it’s any of Marianne’s business. And by tomorrow they’ll be on separate paths. Thankfully. Marianne can go to her brother and sister-in-law’s beautiful house and maybe burn the _PUSSY IS GOD_ hat in their back garden. Listen to them laugh at her misfortune. Make a Christmas memory out of it all.

\--

Overnight, snow falls.


	2. delay

The snow is still pelting down when Marianne wakes, twisting to blink at the cold light tumbling through a crack in the curtains. She sits up and feels the shock of cold, even through her jumper and the t-shirt underneath it. Marianne grabs at the thick duvet and hugs it around her shoulders, wrapping herself like a present, tempted to lie back onto the bed and sink into a few more hours of sleep.

But she won’t wake until afternoon if she falls into the clutches of the soft duvet, smelling of something old and kind. Instead, Marianne reaches across for her phone, pulling it away from the charging lead, and remains hunched in a mountain of warmth. One bar of reception, and no messages. Terrible internet too, at least in this part of the house.

Some snow hits the window; not a flake, too big and loud for that. Likely dropped from one of the tree branches overhanging the house. Marianne looks up to see it splattered against the glass. And beyond it is only white.

Marianne sits there blinking. After a moment she crawls to the end of the bed, taking the duvet with her. Made into an abominable snowman by the white duvet coat, pale face and watchful eyes. Stepping off onto the cool floorboards, Marianne straightens and peers out of the window.

Like a blank piece of paper. There are dashes of dark green leaves and tree branches, dripping snow onto an already-white ground. The lane is mostly blocked up, the driveway covered. Marianne’s car is nearly invisible from where she is gawping down, snow-covered. Camouflage.

And the snow is still falling.

\--

Héloise is staring out of the kitchen window when Marianne walks in. She turns, mug of tea in hand, hair tied back. Eyebags shining blue and purple. They hold eye contact for a moment before Héloise inhales and turns away, towards the high-up mahogany cupboards. “There’s Rice Krispies and Fruity Cheerios.”

Marianne stares at her for a moment, and only replies as Héloise pulls a box of open Rice Krispies out of the cupboard and sets it on the countertop. “I was going to eat on the way,” she says, somewhat numb-sounding.

Héloise turns before she can pull the second box down, and pauses, staring at Marianne with wide, pale eyes, as though waiting for the punchline. When Marianne sticks by her statement, Héloise says: “You’re not going in that.”

She doesn’t say it like something arguable. Marianne tries nonetheless. “Can’t I?”

“No,” says Héloise, and turns back to the cupboard, pulling out an unopened box of Fruity Cheerios. “The driveway needs shovelling. The roads are blocked too.”

A balloon deflates in Marianne’s chest, agonisingly slow. She pulls out a chair from the round table in the middle of the room. Héloise turns, leaning back against the counter, sipping from her tea. She is observing Marianne through the weak puff of steam. Héloise swallows and picks up the Rice Krispies from the counter, giving it a little shake. “Fruity Cheerios are shit,” she says.

Marianne has her phone in her hands but doesn’t switch the screen on. “I’ll have to dig it out,” she says, nearly to herself.

And yet still waits Héloise’s response. Héloise takes another sip and blinks once, heavily, before asking: “What?”

Marianne crosses her ankles underneath the table. “My car. It’s buried.”

Héloise considers this, and then moves around to the small square window. She cranes her neck to see further down the driveway, where Marianne’s car is weighed under a white blanket, growing thicker with each snowflake. She stares for a moment, free hand braced against the countertop. “Don’t do it yet,” Héloise advises after a pause. And turns back around, bringing the mug of tea to her mouth but not drinking from it. “Wait until the snow stops, or it’ll only get covered up again.”

Marianne should probably agree or disagree, or make some response. But she can’t muster it, instead looking down at the pretty tablecloth. Pale green, gingham. And then up and across at the wall. There is a photo there, of a little blonde girl in a yellow raincoat, clinging tightly to a dog who is flecked with mud and dirt, and trying to lick her face. She is grinning, glowing, one eye shut. Héloise?

Marianne tries to think about the photo but instead finds herself thinking about Zelie, the same age as this probable little Héloise. Though with more hair. Marianne looks away again, out of the window and into the blank surroundings.

Héloise is standing there all the while. “Don’t look terrified,” she says at last. Marianne looks up as Héloise draws a thumb across her lips, eyes focused away. She takes a few steps forward, across quarry tiles. “It’ll clear up by tomorrow morning.”

Marianne wonders, briefly, if Héloise will take the seat opposite her. Instead, Héloise walks past Marianne and leaves through the open doors to the kitchen. Marianne listens as she creaks up the stairs.

\--

Marianne takes the time to delicately explore the little house. She was so tired and nervous of Héloïse yesterday that she didn’t get a chance. The corridor is lined with dark floorboards and bare apple cider walls. Spotless. The walls in Marianne’s apartment are paint splattered. There are words scribbled in the high and low corners. Her own handprint doused in lavender, from when she got drunk with Sophie and painted her palm and fingers. She leapt to slap the wall before collapsing in hysterics. Sophie wanted to do it too but ended up falling asleep.

Cupboards under the stairs. Pretty kitchen, cosy living room. The house is a one bathroom, two bedroom ordeal. Upstairs, there’s the spare room, which she’s staying in, and the door Héloïse lurks behind. Marianne lingers there for a moment before catching herself, and moving away.

One glaring revelation is the lack of Christmas decorations. Not everyone likes a Christmas tree, but there is no tinsel, no advent calendar or fairy lights. No sign of other holiday markers either, like Hannukah. Though Marianne thinks that if Héloïse were Jewish or otherwise, Sophie would be by extension. And Sophie is a Christmas enthusiast. But there’s not a trace. If it weren’t for the snow outside, you would never know the season.

\--

The snow. Speaking of which, it begins to thin out. By 3pm, it has stopped.

Marianne stands in the doorway wearing four layers. Her ears are cold but she would rather die than wear the _PUSSY IS GOD_ hat again. And she has to stop thinking of it as the _PUSSY IS GOD_ hat.

Marianne stomps out into the crisp white snow. Her shoes are not quite built for this weather, and she didn’t bring wellies or snow boots or anything mildly appropriate. The forecast said light snow. _Light snow._

But it’s stopped now. Marianne passes her car, which is not quite as submerged as appeared earlier. And the snow isn’t very thick along the road, shielded by the fir trees. Marianne wanders along, swishing her phone about, clutched in numb, reddened fingers. The sleeves of her coat pulled up to shield her palms from the cold. She should have brought gloves. Marianne sucks on her teeth so they don’t chatter, and squints at the bars of reception on her phone screen.

Finally, it ticks up by one, then two. Good enough. Marianne blows hot air up onto her face as she swipes through for Théo’s number, and rubs the tip of her red nose. She finds his contact and digs her free hand into her armpit, shuffling about to keep warm as the phone rings against her ear. She notices a twig half-stuck out of the snow.

Théo picks up. “Hi,” he says, already weary, the sound crackly.

“Hi,” Marianne moves the twig around with her shoe. “I’m going to be late.”

“Yeah, I figured. The kids are making snow forts,” he sucks in air through his teeth. “You alright up there?”

Marianne sighs. She hunkers down and picks up the twig, twirling it in her fingers. Regarding the blank canvas before her. “I definitely made… an impression.”

“As you always do.”

“What does that mean?” Marianne pulls a face that Théo cannot see. “I make great impressions,” she poises the twig between her numb fingers like a pencil, and draws somebody’s side profile.

“You’re very… blunt,” replies Théo.

“That’s a good thing.” Marianne adds eyes and thick brows.

“You pull it off.”

“Thanks,” she gives the disembodied face a rounded ear. Drawing with half a mind, instinctively. “I need to dig my car out. But I’ll hopefully set off this evening.”

“It’ll be a bit dark for that.”

“No, it’ll be fine,” Marianne says, and when Théo tries to cut in, she says: “I want to see you! And Nino, and Zelie. And our parents.”

“They got here yesterday night, just before the bl-“

The other line goes silent.

“Théo? Théo?” Marianne pauses her drawing, pulling the phone back to frown at it, and sees that the call hasn’t ended. She puts it back to her ear and stand up, dropping the twig into the snow. “Théo? Can you hear me?”

Marianne starts to shuffle around, further along the way, until the sound comes crackling back. “Marianne?”

“Théo? Can you hear me now?”

“The sound is shit but-“

And he’s gone again.

Gritting teeth, Marianne stands on her toes and walks, wobbling, further up the road, asking for her brother every few seconds until he comes back, buzzing in her ear.

“The reception’s not excellent, I take it?”

“No. No internet either,” Marianne exhales, heavy, through her mouth. “This is the worst.”

“It’ll be alright. You’ll be here in no time. But careful how you go, right? No dangerous night driving.”

Marianne agrees several times, and the connection keeps cutting out until she hangs up, but keeps the phone to her ear for the sake of warmth, as she moves back towards the house. As she goes, she comes across the snow portrait. And recognises, alarmingly, that it is of Héloïse. An unmistakeable side profile, the throat and jaw and eyes particularly. Staring away towards the house, pensive. Maybe even sad.

Embarrassed, Marianne scuffs away the face with her shoe. And trudges back to the house, trying not to think of it.

\--

Inside. Gentle knocking at Héloïse’s bedroom door.

There is movement from behind, padding footsteps, and then the door opens, just enough for the width of Héloïse. Her face trapped there, between the wall and door, as she watches expectantly. Unblinking. Does this woman ever blink?

“I was wondering,” says Marianne once she remembers herself, “do you have a shovel? The snow stopped, I was going to unearth my car.”

Héloïse makes a short noise of agreement, and glances back into her room for a moment before stepping out, past Marianne. “Under the stairs, I think.”

Marianne goes to follow her, but is briefly distracted by the still-open door. Through it, she sees a desk and bookshelves wall-to-wall. Warm and compact, nearly claustrophobic. No bed. Nowhere a bed could possibly be hiding. Not a bedroom at all, really. It’s an office.

Marianne pulls herself away before her lingering can become too obvious, and follows Héloïse down the stairs. Staring at the back of her hair, half-undone, pale strands curling at the nape of her neck, Marianne wonders where Héloïse would have slept last night, if not in the room Marianne is in. And in that case, is that where she usually sleeps? Is Marianne staying in Héloïse’s room?

She is greeted with an unprecedented array of goosebumps, pinpricking along the back of her neck. And decides to put the notion aside for now.

Héloïse roots around in the cupboard under the stairs for a moment, and then pulls out an enormous shovel, bringing it around to Marianne. “Have you dug your car out of snow before?”

“No,” Marianne takes the shovel in both hands, running her eyes all along it. “It can’t be that hard.”

Héloïse doesn’t say anything to that, which is not promising. She has her hands in her pockets, and shuts the cupboard door with her hip. She leans there for a moment in the quiet, taking Marianne in. “I’d help,” she says, “but…”

“You’re working,” Marianne nods, glancing up to meet her eyes. “Yeah, I heard all about it.”

Héloïse withdraws her head, just by a little, and pulls her lip between her teeth before quickly releasing it. “Did you?”

“No,” Marianne smiles at the relief on Héloïse’s face. “Not really,” she backs up along the wall, towards the door, but stays facing Héloïse .”You’re a writer, aren’t you?”

Héloïse blinks, her eyes softening. She nods, a little shy, chin ducked down. Something glows at the corners of her mouth. Then she moves her head to the right, glancing between the banisters on the stairs.

Marianne leans the shovel up against the door, zipping her winter coat up to her chin. Héloïse passes her, about to ascend the stairs, when she hesitates. Marianne catches her looking at shoes – Marianne’s own shoes. Which did not hold up well in the snow.

“Those are wrecked,” says Héloïse, which is another way to put it. She looks up at Marianne again, mouth slightly open, eyes round. “You don’t have other ones?”

Marianne blinks, fingers stilled around the zipper of her jacket. “No,” she says, annoyed even though Héloïse is right to be concerned.

Héloïse turns her attention back to the shoes. She moves away, down the hall, without a word. The hair loosens from her bun with each quick footstep of hers, bobbing atop her head.

Marianne stands there, unsure what to do, and is just reaching for the ruined shoes when she hears Héloïse’s footsteps returning. She swings around the corner, holding a pair of black snow boots. Héloïse arrives by the stairs. “Try these on,” she says, and thrusts the shoes at Marianne.

Marianne takes them, and sits down on the stairs to pull one on. “It’s a bit big,” she admits, standing and wriggling her toes.

Héloïse shrugs, and nods at Marianne’s other pair. “Better than those.” With that, she passes Marianne and starts up the stairs.

Marianne watches her go. “Thank you,” she calls.

Héloïse pauses, and turns. She smiles briefly, nods once, and continues upstairs.

\--

An hour passes. Marianne’s muscles are aching, her arms shaking as she scrapes the shovel along. Numb fingers and chattering teeth.

At least she’s got a lot covered. The path around it, the roof, the hood and trunk. Tailpipe and tyres. Marianne is nearly satisfied, wondering if she should check the engine too, just in case. Only, that’s when it starts snowing again.

At first Marianne hardly notices, because of her numb skin, the layers of clothes. She is bent over, scraping at snow from underneath the car, when she sees it dotting around her. Hears that the wind has picked up, and raises her head to be greeted with snowflakes falling all around, thicker by the minute. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

But no. No, this will end soon. She just has to keep going.

But it’s building up all over again, on the roof of the car, the hood. Marianne swipes at it in frustration with an un-gloved hand, which does absolutely no good. Speaking of which, Marianne’s hands are chapped and pink, shivering as she grips tightly to the shovel and rounds the car, scraping snow away from the other side. Trying to pretend that the wind isn’t whitening. Blinking the flakes from her stinging eyes, Marianne slices through a heap of snow she hasn’t gotten to, and swears under her breath as she shovels it aside.

It’s hardly successful. And after another minute or two, Marianne feels something on her back. She whirls around, blinking fervently through the white confetti, the blistering cold, and sees Héloïse’s face, teeth bared. A green coat with the hood pulled up. She grabs hold of Marianne’s wrist and shouts in her face, trying to be heard over the wind: “Come inside!”

Marianne shakes her head. “It’s fine!” tries to pull away.

Héloïse holds tight and delivers an expression of disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Marianne shakes her numb head. “It’s fine!” and finds that she is hoarse.

Héloïse says something that gets whipped away in the wind, and raises her voice again: “It’s not fine! Come inside!”

Marianne glares in annoyance, but relents. Gripping tightly to the shovel, she allows herself to be led through the white wind, watching snowflakes dot the car and the pavement, all the progress Marianne had made wasting away.

The warmth of the house is a relief. Marianne exhales and braces the wall instinctively, before pulling back, not wanting to get snow everywhere. Héloïse lets go of her arm, catching her breath, gasping and inhaling through her nose. Marianne leans against the door, shutting it to the howling wind, and stands on the doormat, shedding snow that is already melting.

Once Marianne regains some vision and composure, she unbends her head and sees Héloïse pulling the hood off her head, and wiping at her cheeks and forehead. Thick, wrist-length gloves yanked off, hitting the ground noiselessly. Snowflakes stuck to her duffle coat. Wellies caked in snow that is fast-turning to slush, soaking the floorboards. Héloïse is brushing at her chest and glances up, meeting eyes with Marianne.

There is a silence before Héloïse asks: “Are you okay?”

Marianne opens and shuts her mouth. She is still holding the shovel. “Sorry,” she blurts. Head swimming. Something stuck in her throat. She swallows, and grips the shovel with unfeeling fingers. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Héloïse glances down and walks towards Marianne. Héloïse takes the shovel from her, propping it up in the corner beside an umbrella, and then turns back, and takes Marianne’s hands. Because of how numb they are, they feel like the belong to someone else. But in Héloïse’s grip – warm, dry, shielded from the bitter weather – Marianne’s hands are her own again. Héloïse turns them over, stroking Marianne’s knuckles with her thumb, warming the pink skin. Héloïse observes carefully, dark eyebrows lowered on a pale face. Hooded eyes. A stray strand of hair shadowing her face. “You didn’t bring gloves with you,” she says grimly.

Marianne realises that she is staring at Héloïse, and so tugs her gaze away, blinking at her own hands. “No,” she agrees. Marianne flexes her fingers, the feeling returned. “I didn’t know it would be this bad out.”

Héloïse looks up as Marianne is speaking quietly, eyes made greener by the coat she is wearing, ticking about all over Marianne’s face. Outside, the wind is still howling, even more aggressive than before. “I’ll lend you some tomorrow.”

Marianne raises her eyes, mouth slightly open. “Tomorrow?”

Héloïse inhales through her nose, and nods. “That’s not clearing up today,” she says, “you can stay another night,” she blinks, and adds, softer: “I don’t mind.”

Marianne nods, trying to reel back her worry, her disappointment. She runs her tongue over her teeth, and holds eye contact with Héloïse, not sure what more to do.

Until Héloïse glances at Marianne’s hands, enveloped in her own, and pulls away. Marianne’s hands left to the empty air, withdrawn and held against her stomach. Héloïse is not looking at her, instead holding onto the banister as she toes her wellies off. “Have a shower and I’ll have one after you, so let me know when you’re done. There are pot noodles in the fridge. And sleep - you’re probably exhausted.”

Marianne watches Héloïse, hands folded over her ribs. And before she can stop herself: “In your room?”

Héloïse glances up just as she kicks off her left boot, so that the pair of wellies lie together on the floorboards. “What?”

Marianne purses her lips. “I thought I was in a spare room, but it must be yours. There’s no other bedroom in the house.”

Héloïse hesitates. Her gaze flickers, up and down Marianne’s face, so brief that it might not have happened at all. “Yeah,” she admits, suddenly maintaining eye contact like a challenge, a game. “I wanted to make sure you’d be comfortable.”

Marianne blinks, surprised. “That’s very kind of you.”

Héloïse makes an odd movement, caught between a shaking head and shrugging shoulders.

“So,” Marianne can’t let it go yet. “Where do you sleep? If not in your room?”

Héloïse opens her mouth, leaves it hanging for a moment before she speaks. “The couch pulls out.”

Oh. “That makes sense.”

Héloïse nods, and even smiles, just a tiny bit. Before turning up the stairs, leaving Marianne standing on the doormat.

\--

Later, after she showers and drifts in and out of sleep in bed, Marianne goes downstairs to microwave some pot noodle. Héloïse is in her room – her office, rather. When she’s finished, Marianne walks through the living room, eyeing the couch differently now. It’s a big camelback couch. Marianne sits on it and hears the springs creaking. Théo had a pull-out couch in his old house, so she knows how they open. But as she searches, there is no sign, no way to unroll the couch into a bed.

Maybe she’s just missing something. But suspicion grows within Marianne, like smoke from a fireplace, puffed out of the chimney atop this little house, into the violent, white winter.


	3. signal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This upload schedule is going to be sporadic to say the least. Punctuality? Drafting a chapter more than three times? I don't know her.

By 11 a.m. the next morning the snow has gotten lighter, and Marianne turns the _PUSSY IS GOD_ hat inside out before trudging into the cold, waving her phone around for a signal to no avail.

The hat is rather uncomfortable, as turning it inside out meant wearing the bobble on the inside. It itches at the top of her head. Marianne walks up the road, thickened with snow, and emerges onto the main street. Pristine white is all around. Not a person, not a car, nor a house to be seen.

“Fuck’s sake,” hisses Marianne.

She goes back, still jumping around for signal. Héloïse is at the front door.

“Signal is shit here,” says Héloïse.

“Yes, I figured that out,” Marianne spits, shivering at the door.

Héloïse stares at her.

Marianne shuts her eyes a moment. “Sorry,” she scratches at her jaw. Eyes opening, turned downwards. Héloïse is wearing slippers. Shark slippers. As in, slippers that look like blue sharks, with pointy teeth and fins and everything. “I like your slippers.”

Héloïse looks down. “Thanks,” she says, and raises her head. “I like your hat.”

Before turning back inside. Marianne sucks her teeth on the doorstep for a moment before coming in and ignoring the comment. “I’m just frustrated,” she calls through the house. Héloïse has disappeared into the living room. “I can’t tell my brother why I’m not up at his yet.”

“I’m sure he’s guessed.”

Marianne braces one hand on the wall as she pulls the snow boots off. “It’s just,” she says, but too quietly to be heard. Louder: “Where can I walk that has good signal?”

Héloïse ducks out of the living room, shark slippers soundless against the floorboards. “There’s a library,” she says, “just outside the local village. That’s the closest place.”

Marianne’s eyes widen. She stopped pulling her boots off. “Where’s that?”

Héloïse is approaching, kicking off her slippers. They bounce off the wall. “I’ll take you.”

“What?” Marianne straightens her posture, one hand still flat on the wall. “No, you don’t need to do that.”

Héloïse is ignoring her, taking her duffel coat from where it hangs on the newel post. “It’s hard to find, especially when everything’s covered in snow.”

“Are you sure?”

Héloïse pulls the coat on, turning to Marianne. “Sure,” she confirms. And, after a pause. “And Sophie tells me you’re terrible with directions.”

Sophie. Marianne purses her lips, and starts yanking her boots on again. She catches Héloïse with a small smile on her face.

\--

“You can wear it normally.”

Héloïse tells her this as they crunch along the snowy pathway. Marianne turns to stare at her. She is wearing a bomber hat which covers her yellow hair. It looks incredibly comfortable and Marianne would be jealous if it didn’t already look so good on Héloïse. Which is a weird thing to think about. Setting that aside for the moment, Marianne squints at Héloïse, silently hoping for elaboration. Héloïse gives, nodding up to Marianne’s hat. “Outside-in.”

Oh. Marianne purses her lips, turning her attention ahead. The road twists and turns. There are trees all along on her left, and a field drowned in snow on her right. “You’ll never take me seriously.”

“Why do you want me to take you seriously?” when Marianne looks over, Héloïse is smiling a little, brow furrowed. “We don’t know each other,” she says, like a gentle reminder.

“I know a bit about you,” Marianne replies, defensive.

“From what Sophie’s said.”

Marianne inhales the crisp air. She has her hands shoved in the pockets of her coat, a turtleneck pulled up as far as it will go. She observes Héloïse, who stares right back, her smile fading. “I know that you are thoughtful,” Marianne begins. “And…”

Pretty. She was about to say pretty. Which, Héloïse is, truthfully. Not that it matters. But when Héloïse is smiling, even just the faint glimmer on her mouth or in her eyes, Marianne feels something flicker high up in her chest.

But it wouldn’t be appropriate to say. And now Marianne has been staring at Héloïse for a bit too long, so she says something else. “You don’t celebrate Christmas.”

Héloïse blinks. Nearly impressed.

Marianne hesitates. She could end it there, but instead casually mentions: “I know you lied about the pull-out couch.”

Héloïse eyes harden. For a moment, she remains silent. “You’re nosy, so,” is what she comes out with eventually, a little annoyed.

“Observant,” Marianne suggests instead.

Héloïse turns back ahead. There is a turn coming up. “How do you know I don’t like Christmas?” Héloïse asks after a few silent seconds.

Marianne tries not to look at her. She’s been staring too much. “There are no Christmas decorations anywhere in the house,” she informs Héloïse, as though she does not already know. “Nothing for any holiday.”

More quiet. And then: “How do you know about the couch?”

Marianne opens her mouth, only to shut it again after a moment. Pulling her hand out of her pocket to rub at her forehead.

“See?” Marianne turns her head, seeing Héloïse, eyes narrowed. A smile flickers, triumphant. “Nosy,” she repeats.

Marianne won’t back down. “Curious,” she tries instead.

Héloïse shakes her head, the ear flaps on her hat moving about as she does so. “Why are you curious?”

“Are you going to tell me there’s nothing to know?”

“No, there’s plenty to know. I’m very interesting,” Héloïse smiles again, this time with teeth. But it’s over quickly, simmering and turning into a bitten lip and a stare straight ahead. “But you’re not going to be here for very long.”

Marianne takes a moment to respond, her own smile fading. “I’ve been here longer than I expected,” she says, and can’t keep her tone light.

They turn the corner. “Well, look,” Héloïse nods. “You can call your family now, up ahead.”

It’s camouflaged, white brick on a white landscape. The library is a square building with small, high-up windows, and stairs leading up to a big open door. They enter, and Marianne pulls off the hat, scratching the top of her head and looking around. Small, quiet, as libraries tend to be. Héloïse scuffs her shoes on the doormat and wanders in, at home already. She smiles at a man in the historical fiction aisle, and beckons for Marianne to follow her.

They walk towards the three bulky computers that are shunned in the corner. “It always feels a bit sacrilegious,” Héloïse says in a low voice, as they pull two chairs up to one computer. “To go to the library for the purpose of using the internet.”

“What are we googling?” asks Marianne, who is pulling out her phone to check the signal.

“The weather forecast,” Héloïse types quickly, fingers clacking on the keys. Marianne’s phone buzzes, telling her of all her messages and missed calls. While she’s scrolling through them: Sophie, Théo, Lisette (Marianne’s sister-in-law), her mother, father. As she sends Sophie a text encompassing the situation, Marianne hears Héloïse’s soft “oh.”

Marianne looks up to the computer screen to see that Héloïse has googled the forecast, only to be greeted with a list through the week. Little icons of snow-clouds, and minus numbers in temperature.

Héloïse scrolls past it, through links to news articles, eyes darting as she skims. _Unexpected blizzard,_ one reads. _Winter storm buries France,_ or _French countryside bombarded by unprecedented snowstorm._ Héloïse clicks on an article and scrolls through, eyeing the graphs, the maps of France turned white, dotted with drawings of snow clouds. She reads while Marianne remains stiff, phone in hand. “For the week,” Héloïse mumbles. “Might last till the new year.”

She stays staring at the screen for a moment before turning suddenly to face Marianne, letting go of the mouse like it might burn her. Instead, she grapples to hold onto the top rail of her chair, elbow jutting out, eyes wide and waiting on Marianne.

Marianne inhales through her mouth, curling her tongue. And then stands from the chair and walks off, scrolling through her phone as she goes. She moves towards the door and presses herself into the corner as she calls her dad, pressing the phone to her ear. Crossing the fingers on her left hand.

He picks up. “Marianne!”

“Hi.”

“We’ve been trying to reach you for ages,” he sounds relieved, and fumbles with the phone. “I’ve got Marianne here!” There is some ruckus on the other end, and laughter from her father, loud and ringing. Marianne didn’t get that from him. He leans back into the receiver. “How are you? How is it over there?”

“Good. Cold,” Marianne swallows, “actually, I’m not… I won’t be able to get there for a while, probably.”

A spot of silence. Footsteps on the other end, mumbled voices. “How do you put speaker on the phone again?” dad asks Marianne.

“Look at the screen, you’ll see the button,” as Marianne listens to her parents bumbling around with the phone on the other end, Marianne sees Héloïse appear around the corner. Hands in pockets, big hat. Blinking at Marianne from afar.

There’s a triumphant noise on the other end, and a barrage of voices. “Hi, love!” calls her mother, her voice a little shaky. Théo too, sounding wrecked: “How did you get signal? Are you on the way?”

Marianne opens her mouth, jaw trembling. Seeing Héloïse’s concern feels too much, so Marianne looks at the floor and twists her feet. “No. There’s a library, near the house. Héloïse took me - that’s Sophie’s cousin,” a pause, “we were just looking at the forecast. I don’t know if I’ll get there. It’s going to be like this until new year. Allegedly. I’m sort of stuck.”

There is a silence on the other end, excepted by fuzzing and crackling of awkward phone connection. “Hello?” tries Marianne, a little hoarse.

“We’re here,” says Marianne’s mum, faint.

“Are you sure?” her dad sound uneasy, “The forecast didn’t predict this a few days ago, maybe it’s wrong again now. It might clear.”

Marianne draws a swirling pattern on the floor with the tip of her snowboot. “Maybe,” she manages.

“We couldn’t come and get you?” asks Marianne’s mum, urgent, leaning close to the receiver.

“The roads are blocked up everywhere,” says Théo. Marianne can nearly see him, his solemn, shaking head, serious eyes. She traces the lines of his face on the floorboards with her foot. “That’s why I walked to the shops this morning,” he continues, “And even if we could drive, it’s too icy,” more buzzing silence, followed by: “Marianne, are you staying… where are you…?”

As he asks this, Marianne looks up, and finds that Héloïse has moved closer, gloved fingers interlocked, eyebrows lowered as she studies Marianne’s face. Almost absent-minded, Marianne mouths “where.” Héloïse’s eyes flick down to her mouth, and then back up, where, without hesitation, she answers a question she could not have heard.

“Mine,” says Héloïse, doubtless.

Marianne stares at her, mouth opening and closing, trying to politely refuse.

“At mine,” Héloïse repeats. And then, earnest, head tilted, “It’s okay.”

Marianne remembers to shut her mouth. She tries to muster thanks in her expression as she speaks into the phone. “Héloïse says I can stay at hers.”

Silence. “That’s good of her,” says Marianne’s dad, trying to keep cheerful.

Théo sighs, further away than before. “Probably no other option anyway.”

“Oh, god, love,” Marianne’s mum sighs, the way she does, through her teeth. Whistling a little. “That’s really disappointing.”

Something bobbing in Marianne’s throat. Héloïse is still looking at her. What is with this? Marianne looks at her shoes again. “Yeah,” she responds, her voice thick.

“Can we skype you, or anything?” asks Théo, “On Christmas?”

Christmas. Marianne won’t be with them on Christmas. She’ll be here. Fucking _here._

“I don’t know,” replies Marianne, hardly hearing herself. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. “Not from where I’m staying anyway. The wi-fi is a bit shit.”

“We’ll sort something,” reassures her mother, her voice a little higher than usual.

Marianne stares at Héloïse’s shoes. Unmoving. “I was looking forward to it,” she admits into the phone.

More silence. Marianne can’t remember the last time she felt so crushed. And by what? Snow? Poor timing? Coincidence?

Her dad’s famous inhale. She hears him shuffle around. “Don’t worry, love,” he tells her. “Weather is always changing. Everything is changing, constantly. We’ll adapt.”

\--

When they’re returning to the house, Marianne trudges on ahead. Hands in pockets, head bent. Breaking through the pristine snow with fresh footsteps. Snow caught on her sleeves, on a tuft of hair.

Stupid hat is so uncomfortable. Marianne reaches up and tears it off, feeling the shock of bitter cold nip at her ears and forehead. “Fucking stupid,” she murmurs. About the hat? The weather? Everything? Everything, probably. “I can’t believe myself.”

“You don’t control the weather,” comes a surprise reply, from Héloïse, who is still here and walking closer to Marianne than she realised.

Marianne whips around to glare at Héloïse, finding that she is catching up, eyes hardened and unapologetic. But she’s not being mean, either. Marianne doesn’t know what Héloïse is going for. Maybe she’s emotionally constipated and this is how she displays concern. Or pity.

Marianne flares her nostrils. “I could have left earlier,” she bites, desperate to prove her own fault. Turning to the perfect snow, crushing it underfoot. “I would have missed the storm and… and gotten there, and it would have been fine.”

Suddenly Héloïse is gentle-sounding again. “You had no idea,” she says.

Marianne’s nose feels numb. Everything is stiff and cold besides her eyes. She feels sick and strained, inside her throat. She looks up, and finds Héloïse there, close, matching her urgent pace. Marianne looks down. Back up. Héloïse’s eyes are freezing, scalding, listening.

Marianne feels anger blistering, irrational but fiery nonetheless. “Stop looking at me,” she hisses at Héloïse. Marianne shakes her head. “I don’t know why you keep looking at me.”

Héloïse does not slow or back down. She doesn’t blink either. “Where should I look?” she demands, after what seems like silence long-held. “Will I shut my eyes?”

Marianne returns the glare. And then is greeted by a wave, not of anger, but sorrow. Inexplicable, crippling. Marianne has to stop walking, which catches Héloïse off guard. Héloïse stops just ahead, and turns around, hands in pockets, eyes narrowed and icy against the backdrop of silver and white.

Marianne runs her tongue along her top row of teeth. Her upper arms are shaking. Can’t remember how to breath or blink manually. “I’m sorry,” she says, voice too high and wobbly.

Héloïse has frozen. She watches like a statue as Marianne crumples, keeping it within her until she has to gasp for a breath, and her jaw is quivering. Tears blotting like transparent ink, trembling down her cheeks. “Don’t be,” Héloïse responds eventually, after what seems like at least a minute, but must have been only seconds.

“No, it’s - I’m,” Marianne is full force now. Snot, shivering shoulders. Later this will be hideously embarrassing but right now her head and vision is blurry. Marianne hiccups through tears. “On my period,” she tries to explain. Which is one reason.

Héloïse doesn’t take as long to respond this time. “Okay,” she says. Which isn’t a lot. But Marianne cries harder after Héloïse says it, and pulls her hands out of her pockets to wipe at her face.

After Marianne has regained a little bit of composure, though not much, Héloïse steps towards her, and puts out a gloved hand. Reaching around Marianne’s back. “Come on,” she says, gentle but firm. And on they go.

\--

Héloïse makes hot chocolate. Marianne sits in the living room on the couch, wrecked, eyes heavy and half lidded. Her nose still cold. Something dull in her chest, and something else low in her throat, trembling like a baby bird. Héloïse emerges from the kitchen with a steaming mug. The mug has a shark on it.

Marianne says thank you, croaky and whispered, and takes the mug with both hands. Drinking with shut eyes, velvet-smooth and rich. She stops, wipes her mouth, and peers at the shark on the mug, which is smiling with sharp teeth. Marianne peers over the rim and sees that Héloïse is wearing her shark slippers. “Why do you have so many shark things?” Marianne asks.

Héloïse looks at the mug, then at her slippers. Back up again. She appears very calm for someone who has been dealing with an emotional stranger for half an hour. Are they still strangers? “I have two shark things,” Héloïse says.

“Three,” Marianne blinks, eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She sips from the mug again, hot chocolate textured on her tongue. “A pair of slippers makes three.”

“Three isn’t that many,” Héloïse sounds vaguely defensive, but there is lightness in her eye. She raises one of her slippers above the floor. “I thought the slippers were cute and I was given the mug,” foot back on the ground, eyes raised to Marianne, head angled half-away. “It’s not a mystery.”

Marianne is too tired to stop herself. “Where you sleep is a mystery,” she adds. Without bite. Just curiosity.

“Don’t worry about it,” says Héloïse, a little faint. Then sidesteps away, towards the door that leads out into the hallway. “I need to work,” mouth skewed, lip half-bitten. “Will you be okay?”

Marianne nods. She feels so small, hunched over on the couch. Vulnerable and shivering a little, vexed by deep-rooted disappointment and chill. And yet Héloïse is nothing but nice. Not even that awkward.

Héloïse turns away to head out and up the stairs. But before she can wind around the corner, Marianne calls out: “The slippers are cute.”

Héloïse pauses, and turns her head. Marianne smiles, as big as she can muster, which is not much. Héloïse’s eyes soften, and she looks suddenly shy. Returning the smile, but already leaving, suddenly gone around the corner and rushing up the stairs. Marianne watches one hand trail along the wall, ignoring the perfectly good banister to her right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyway listen to pussy is god by king princess.


	4. bonding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everybody!!! Or happy holidays!!!

In the morning, Marianne is barely awake for ten seconds before she understands two things.

  * She is absolutely fucking mortified about yesterday.
  * She has acquired a cold.



These two facts are immediately at odds with each other, as she needs to leave the room but also avoid Héloïse as much as possible. Marianne manages to creep across the landing to the bathroom, where she steals a roll of toilet paper. Marianne spends the next few hours in and out of feverish sleep, attempting several times to get out of bed and always failing. She pulls the small bin by the door next to her nightstand for the tissues.

She’s still in her room by noon, when Héloïse knocks on the door. Or, Marianne assumes it’s Héloïse. Unless someone has broken in. “Come in,” Marianne tries her best to sound normal, but her voice is scratchy and thick. She smothers a cough in the crook of her elbow.

Héloïse opens the door, leaving her fingers wound around the handle. She’s wearing a cable-knit jumper. Pear-coloured, sleeves rolled up. In her other hand she holds a plain white mug. Héloïse throws her eyes over Marianne for a moment as she brings the mug to her lips. “You’re sick,” she says, decided, and drinks.

Marianne doesn’t have the energy to dispute her. “Just a cold,” she manages, short of breath and raspy. Finds herself inspecting Héloïse’s jumper. “You own a lot of green clothes,” Marianne observes, and feels an itch in her throat.

Héloïse peers over her mug. “Green suits my eyes,” she answers, as though it’s obvious.

Marianne can’t deny that. Though she’s not sure, yet, what exact colour Héloïse’s eyes are. But based on Héloïse’s expression, Marianne can’t get away with diverting the conversation again. Instead, she sniffs, sitting up in bed. A bit desperate to get Héloïse out of the room so she can lock away the grave embarrassment that has come from her minor breakdown yesterday, and from getting sick while staying as a guest in this house. “I’ll be fine.”

Héloïse rolls her eyes. Actually rolls her eyes. “You will be,” she agrees, “but you have to stop saying that like it’s a dismissal.”

Marianne stares. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?”

Héloïse hesitates, as though caught out. And then her eyebrows raise, and a smile curls at the corners of her mouth, stretching wide and flustered. “Jesus,” she pulls the mug up to cover her lips. “The way you said that made you sound like a teacher,” she shakes her head, barely noticeable, and sips from the mug. “Don’t give me flashbacks to school like that.”

Marianne clears her throat, folding arms. “I am a teacher.”

Héloïse lowers the mug, watching Marianne carefully for signs of a joke before asking, incredulous. “You are?”

“Yes,” Marianne croaks, and pauses before adding, “a good one.”

Héloïse laughs, a low hum, and widens her eyes. With a tilt of her head, she concurs, “Well, I’m sorry, Ms…”

Marianne laughs, embarrassed and wheezy. “Don’t call me Ms.,” she instructs. “It feels weird.”

Héloïse’s grin shrinks, but not entirely, left with a small smile. She finally loosens her grip on the door handle, and holds the mug in both hands. “I’m sorry, Marianne,” she says, slow and soft, “but I have to put my foot down and make you a hot lemon with honey.”

Marianne groans, pulling herself up even more, scrabbling to toss aside the duvet. “No, Héloïse, I’ll do it! I’m perfectly alright, just a bit wrecked…”

“Lie back down!” Héloïse is pointing a finger, nearly threatening. Head tilted but eyes light. “Go on,” she says, and a grin flickers. Enjoying herself. “If you know what’s good for you.”

Marianne splutters something incoherent, trying to shove down a smile of her own. She ends coughing into her elbow again, which doesn’t do much to defend her health. “Don’t you have to write?” Marianne asks when she clears her throat.

Héloïse drums her fingertips along the side of her mug. “I’m dying for an excuse to procrastinate,” she admits. Something bright about her, this morning. She nods out the door, mouth open by a sliver. “It’ll help a sore throat.”

Marianne is running out of the will to argue. And a hot lemon does sound nice. “Are you sure?” she asks again, to be completely sure.

Héloïse smiles again, one last time. Just as she is stepping away and pulling the door shut, Marianne can’t help but admire how well she wears happiness. “Hot lemon, incoming,” Héloïse says firmly. And shuts the door, leaving Marianne to her tissues and bedsheets, and an inexplicably red face. Though maybe it’s not so inexplicable. But Marianne is trying not to think about that too much.

\--

Héloïse comes back soon after. Hot water with lemon and honey, sweet and golden. As well as a few packets of tissues. Marianne thanks Héloïse several times, drinks it in a few gulps and falls in and out of sleep for a few more hours.

When she wakes again, she feels a little better, her throat smoother and less scratchy, but is plagued by the embarrassment of the last few days. Poor Héloïse. First a woman shows up with a hat that reads _PUSSY IS GOD_ in big block letters. Said woman proceeds to go mildly insane in a snowstorm, has a breakdown the next day, catches a cold and has to stay for an untold amount of time until the roads clear. Absolute nightmare. Marianne silently yells at herself for a while until she becomes bored of that too.

Then she emerges from the room in search of food, wrapped in a blanket from the end of the bed. Héloïse is not in her room; or, rather, not in her office. The door is left slightly ajar, with no presence. Downstairs, Héloïse’s shoes and coat are missing. She’s gone out for the moment. Marianne makes herself a turkey sandwich and eats it groggily at the table. She creeps around the house and finds that the best wi-fi is in the living room, on the left side of the couch. Marianne tries to make a call and fails. Checks the weather forecast. No change.

\--

Upstairs, after an hour of half-listening to a podcast about Shakespeare, Marianne gets up to go to the bathroom. And outside her door, on the landing, is a book.

Flat and dark blue. Worn around the edges; well-loved. Little line drawings of stars. In the centre of the cover, a drawing, of an aeroplane in a wasteland, a man and a boy. _The Little Prince,_ reads the title, and underneath that: _A graphic novel adapted from the classic book by Antoine De Saint-Exupery._

A graphic novel. Adapted by Joann Sfar. Marianne blinks heavy eyes and smiles to herself. She opens the first page and finds a yellow sticky-note. Scrawled handwriting.

 _4.26 stars on goodreads._  
I’m making soup later.  
\- Héloïse

\--

Marianne devours the book within an hour. She cries.

\--

She goes down to have dinner later in the day, holding the book tightly. In the kitchen, Héloïse has made soup, as promised. Broccoli. Marianne sits down and places the book on the table beside the bowl, as Héloïse remains standing with her own bowl. “I love it,” Marianne says, in earnest. “The book.”

Héloïse glances up, a long spoon between her fingers, like one might hold a pen. She seems pleased. “I thought it might be your thing.”

Marianne takes a few spoonfuls, watching Héloïse move to the sink, where she pours herself a glass of gushing water. The window is behind her head, and against the blank backdrop, her hair stands out in a shock of yellow. “I’ve never read The Little Prince,” says Marianne to the back of Héloïse’s head. “The original, I mean.”

She coughs into her sleeve as Héloïse twisting the handle of the tap until the water switches off. She turns around, bowl in one hand, glass of water in the other. The spoon half-submerged in soup. Héloïse holds the glass up to her mouth as she walks slowly towards Marianne, so that half her face is slightly altered through the wobbling water. Soundless slippers against tiles.

Marianne feels something in her throat. Not sickness. She tears away from Héloïse, back down to the book, taking a spoonful of soup. And all at once, looking at the cover, Marianne is stricken. “He looks like you,” she says.

What seems like a rather long pause. “Sorry?” asks Héloïse.

Marianne glances up again, to the scrunched expression Héloïse is wearing. Marianne angles the book towards the corner of the table, and Héloïse moves around to see. Marianne places her forefinger on the hardback, pointing at the drawing of a boy on the cover, in the foreground of a desert. The little prince himself.

Héloïse says nothing, even as she lingers at Marianne’s shoulder, looking on without giving a clue as to how she feels. So Marianne inhales through her nose and elaborates. “Decked in green,” she cites, observing his outfit. “Yellow hair,” adds Marianne. Very yellow hair, in this case. And also, “Blue…”

But Marianne does not finish. Because she is now thinking about that particular shade in Héloïse’s stare, the rings of bright colour. And without thinking too hard about it, Marianne tilts her head back, looking into Héloïse’s eyes.

Blue and pale green. The pupil dots the centre like a planet, and surrounding it is unmistakeably golden. All blended together. Blinking once, softly, a flash of soft eyelashes. The array of colour in the skin around her eyes. Purple and blue beneath, pink and dotting freckles, yellow, gold again. Just this section of Héloïse’s face could use the entirety of Marianne’s palette, but it would take time and practice to capture all the layers of her stare. Though Marianne would like to.

She would like to. But shouldn’t, or can’t. And Marianne realises that she has been staring and saying nothing for some time, long enough to forget the original purpose of their conversation. And her tongue is dry.

Héloïse blinks once, as though to sober herself, and steps away, putting a fair distance between them. She is looking at the cover of the book again, biting on her bottom lip. “I like to think I don’t look like a little boy,” Héloïse says, something caught in her tone. She looks over at Marianne again, and appears to relax, exhaling. Something like a smile glows behind her cheeks, and she acquires a shy expression.

Marianne melts. Can’t help or deny it. She opens and shuts her mouth, turning her head. Settling across the room on that framed photograph hung up on the wall. A little Héloïse, grinning like mad, clutching to a muddy dog. “Comparing that photo, then,” Marianne nods towards it. “You had enormous eyes.”

Héloïse turns her head. Marianne watches as her face stops shining, turning dull. Hard-eyed and tense again. Before Marianne can understand what she’s said, Héloïse speaks, in a grave, nearly disgusted tone. “That’s not me.”

Marianne sits very still, only swivelling her head to watch Héloïse stride out of the room. Her shark slippers disappearing around the corner. Listening carefully once again, as Héloïse heads straight upstairs. Marianne gets up for a moment, leaving the book and the soup on the table. She moves across and peers at the photo on the wall. Of the dog, and the bright little girl, who is not Héloïse.

\--

In the morning, Marianne showers to clear her head. It works a little. She draws absent-minded patterns on the steamed-up shower door, and then wipes it all away when she shuts off the water. Marianne peers at herself in the mirror. Red-nosed and eyes slightly puffy. She clears her throat before going out the door.

Downstairs, the camelback sofa appears untouched. No sign of being slept on – barely any sign of being sat on. Marianne runs her tongue over her teeth and moves into the kitchen.

Héloïse is there. Actually sitting down for once, at the table. She has a stack of paper on the gingham tablecloth and a red biro twirling in her fingers. Her jumper is oversized, her pyjama bottoms tartan. Shark slippers are an important addition. Héloïse looks up as Marianne moves across to the cupboards. “How’re you feeling?” she asks.

Marianne considers this, pulling out the box of Rice Krispies. “Better,” she says, and looks around at Héloïse, whose eyes are narrowed in disbelief. “I swear, I am!” protests Marianne. She goes to the fridge, searching for a carton of milk. “Not perfect, but not as bad as yesterday.”

She makes her bowl of cereal in silence. Comfortable silence. Héloïse has not mentioned the photograph, which now hangs just over her shoulder. Marianne intends to also avoid that subject. Maybe not forever, though. But it should be up to Héloïse to bring it up. Instead, when she sits opposite Héloïse with her cereal and spoon, Marianne nods at the stack of papers Héloïse is sifting through. “How’s that going?”

Héloïse looks upon her work with distaste, rolling the pen in her fingertips. “It’s going,” she says.

And for a while, that’s all she says. Héloïse doesn’t go upstairs either, instead sitting there and assumedly editing while Marianne eats, quiet as possible. After Héloïse turns a page in her manuscript, she puts the pen down with some aggression and straightens up, looking directly at Marianne. “Do you want to come down?” she asks. “I know you don’t feel 100%, but it must be boring up there,” Héloïse is speaking rather quickly, as though she’s trying to get it all out at once. “Bring the duvet and sit on the couch,” hesitation, “with me,” followed by a dithering silence, and then: “We can watch something.”

Watch something. Marianne runs her thumb along the fiddle-shaped end of her spoon. “You don’t have work to do?” she asks.

Héloïse doesn’t even glance down at the papers before her. “I can take a break.”

“Yeah, of course, but you don’t have to,” Marianne stumbles. “Not for me.”

Héloïse pulls her elbows off of the table and lets her hands fall into her lap. “I would like to,” she says, “If you would.”

\--

And so, soon, Marianne is bundled on the couch, with packets of tissues on one side and Héloïse on the other. They are sat as far left as possible. The wi-fi is slow here, but certainly better than it is upstairs. Héloïse has one leg up on the couch, leaning forward towards the laptop, which is on a chair before them.

“You know what I realised was available in full on YouTube the other day?” Marianne suggests. Héloïse looks up at her, interested. “The Snowman,” says Marianne, “The Raymond Briggs one. You know it?”

Héloïse doesn’t say anything for a moment. “Yeah, I do,” she says, and goes quiet again. “I don’t really want to watch that one, though.”

“You don’t like it?” asks Marianne, not out of disbelief, rather curiosity.

Héloïse skews her mouth. “Let’s just say I’ve seen it a lot,” she says, and turns back to the laptop screen. “I have Netflix.”

So, instead, they come across the first Twilight movie, which Marianne has blocked from her memory and which Héloïse has never seen. As the film unfolds Héloïse admits to being an intense Twilight fan as a seventeen year old, only to become embarrassed by her obsession within a year. For such reason, she never saw the movie. Marianne, on the other hand, watched it age nineteen while high.

It’s much funnier than either of them expected. But Héloïse keeps having to pause it to facepalm silently at the dialogue, which makes Marianne laugh until she starts coughing. It buffers at inconvenient moments. They lose their collective shit at the baseball scene.

After that, things wind down. Marianne is leaning back against the couch, half watching, half zoned out. Héloïse has gone quiet, and Marianne is a little afraid that if she turns to look, she will start staring, and by extension, she will be caught staring.

The credits roll, and Marianne sighs. “I sort of wish I had been high this time too,” she admits. And when there’s only silence in response, Marianne turns her head, and sees Héloïse with her head tilted onto the back of the couch, facing Marianne. Eyes shut. Mouth slightly open. Heaving shoulders and chest, and legs folded up.

First, something in Marianne soars. At the sight of Héloïse like this. Has anyone looked so pretty while asleep? Marianne doesn’t know how she looks sleeping, but she’s rather sure that it’s not very dignified.

Second is a question that pinpricks at Marianne’s skin. A ship sinks in her chest. Snow pelts down outside.

How often does she sleep?


	5. sleep

The next day, Marianne is pulling on the snow boots, sat on the last step of the stairs. She hears Héloïse creaking down behind her, and struggles to stand so she can get by.

But Héloïse places a gentle hand on Marianne’s shoulder. “You’re alright,” she says, and squeezes through over the last step, onto the floorboards. The hand leaves Marianne’s shoulder, but she wills the sensation to linger.

Héloïse strides across the floorboards, tied up hair bobbing along. She turns, casting a glance towards Marianne, who sits back down on the step to yank her other shoe on. “Where are you off to?”

“Library,” Marianne wriggles her heel about, wedging it in. “I’m going to stand outside and call family.”

Héloïse nods but doesn’t move. “Bring your hat, won’t you?” she asks.

Marianne looks up at her, and then down again, feeling her cheeks burn. “I really would prefer to not traumatise any children who might happen to be there.”

“If you’re just standing outside,” Héloïse’s voice holds a tickle of amusement, but she remains stubborn. “You just got over the cold.”

Marianne stands, and swipes a hand through her hair, which grows darker and wavier in winter. Not quite as long as it used to be, but enough to warm up her head. “My hair is thick,” she says.

Héloïse blinks, and her eyes raise, roving over Marianne’s head. Her gaze is intense enough, that it feels as though Marianne is having her hair combed. “I know,” says Héloïse, as though she truly does. Her voice lower than usual.

After a moment, Héloïse inhales through her nose, and moves her eyes to meet Marianne’s. “Hang on a second,” she says. And is gone down the hallway.

Trying not to think about these things has proven harder as the hours tick by. _‘These things’_ being Héloïse related. Marianne stands there motionless for a few moments after Héloïse goes, before kicking herself back into gear, patting her trouser pockets to find which side she left her phone in. She drifts towards the door before hearing Héloïse, and turning in time to see her scarper in from the back room. Clutching her own bomber hat and a pair of gloves. “Here,” she says, holding them out to Marianne with total seriousness, eyes wide and glinting like wet pebbles on a beach, under a cold winter sun.

Such eyes are difficult to look away from. But Marianne forces herself to instead examine the offering in Héloïse’s hands. “Are you sure?” she asks.

Héloïse doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes the hat in one hand, and with the other gives the gloves to Marianne. Marianne looks up to thank her, only for Héloïse to reach up with the hat, and place it onto Marianne’s head. She has to tug on it by the ear flaps so that it fits snugly. Her eyes are narrowed in concentration, but once the hat is on, Héloïse’s features soften, and she looks over Marianne fondly, eventually meeting her gaze. “It suits you,” she says.

Marianne is having difficulty speaking. When she remembers what words are, all she can manage is, “Better than the…?” But fails to finish the question when she realises what she’s saying.

Too late. Héloïse’s eyes widen and she tilts her head. “Pussy is God?” she asks, and a grin blossoms, shining out of her whole face, the corners of her eyes crinkling, before being bitten down and subdued. Héloïse shrugs, blinking and fluttering as Marianne laughs, half in horror at hearing her misfortune spoke out loud. “I don’t know. I liked that one on you too.”

Marianne is still laughing, bones trembling with it, all along her arms. Giddy. She can feel herself reddening, and so ducks her chin and pulls on the gloves. Says something like a thank you. For the gloves, the hat. But also for yesterday. Which was a lot of fun. For being allowed to stay. For joking. For making Marianne laugh, and for Héloïse’s own grin. Gleaming, crescent-shaped and fleeting. Does it have to be fleeting? _Smile again,_ Marianne wants to ask. _If you would like, if you want to. I want to make you smile like that again._

Then Marianne steps out the door and walks to the library. And the whole way her face is burning, enough to keep her warm in the vast and bitter cold.

\--

The giddiness fades when she hangs up the call with Zelie and Nino.

She comes back to the house, brushing off dappled snow, already melting. Marianne rubs her face with both hands, pinching the bridge of her reddened nose.

She strips off the scarf and gloves and shoes, places the hat delicately atop the newel post, and wanders into the kitchen. Where she is surprised to find Héloïse, sitting improperly on a kitchen chair with a book in hand. One shark slipper up on the seat, the other on the tiles. She glances up at Marianne comes in, and something glimmers in her eye. Or did Marianne imagine that? Wishful thinking?

She can’t quite muster a genuine smile, still thinking of her niece and nephew’s disappointment. “Avoiding responsibilities?” Marianne wanders over to pick an orange out of the fruit bowl, digging her thumb through the skin.

“I think it’s healthy,” says Héloïse from behind, “to procrastinate once in a while.”

Marianne turns, leaning back against the counter, orange peel torn away, held between finger and thumb. Héloïse is eyeing her carefully over the book in her hands, and Marianne has to look down. Focus on the rind, orange zest. She has peeled it entirely, and is binning the skin when chair legs scrape against tiles. Héloïse is standing, pushing a bookmark between pages, and setting the thin paperback on the tablecloth. “I want to take you somewhere,” she says, not looking up yet.

Marianne is standing by the bin, taking the orange segments apart, mindlessly. “I just came in,” she says.

Héloïse pushes the chair in. “Are you planning on doing anything else today?”

Marianne is vaguely offended by this. “I’m eating an orange,” she points out, which does not do much for her argument.

Héloïse looks up at last, tapping the back of the chair with one finger. “Finish it and borrow my gloves again,” she says. Pauses. “But you’re going to have to wear your own hat.”

\--

Soon after, Marianne is following Héloïse out around the back of the house. Marianne is, regretfully, wearing the _PUSSY IS GOD_ hat, which has by now become the definitive name, and she can’t bring herself to abbreviate it to the P.I.G hat. Héloïse has brought the shovel with her. Maybe three days ago, Marianne would have been fearing for her life right now. But she is fairly confident that Héloïse is not bringing her out the back to murder her.

For good measure though, she asks: “What’s the shovel for?”

“You’ll see in a moment,” says Héloïse, marching on ahead. Which is not completely reassuring, but Marianne will leave it for now.

Through the fir trees, into an untouched area where the snow is pristine. It feels almost rude to interrupt the unbroken snow with crunching footsteps. But Héloïse leads Marianne into a small clearing not far from the house. Wherein she starts shovelling snow.

Marianne stares, hands shoved in the pockets of her coat. “What are you doing?” she asks, breath smoking in the bitter air.

Héloïse huffs, slicing through the snow with the shovel. She looks over at Marianne, suddenly bright eyed. “Come here,” she says, “We’re going to build a snow fort.”

Marianne splutters through laughter, unable to help herself. “What?”

Héloïse wrinkles her nose, but is smiling a little. “What?” She dumps the snow into a big pile and straightens up, leaning on the shovel.

Marianne’s jaw bobs for a moment as she makes a strangled sort of noise. “I don’t know if I’ve ever built a snow fort.”

“You must have.”

“Well, then I don’t remember how.”

“It’ll be fun,” Héloïse squints, her smile stretching. “I can see you smiling,” she says, a little quieter.

Marianne laughs again, this time to the sky. A snowflake lands on her cheek and she doesn’t brush it off. She inhales, and then moves towards the pile of snow. Starts trying to shape a wall out of it. “You’re the strangest person.”

Héloïse hums, pleased with herself. Slicing through the snow again, she retaliates. “I’m not the one in the hat.”

“You told me to wear this!”

\--

So they build a snow fort.

An igloo would have been cooler, they both agree, but are too nervous to try and make a roof. So instead they have four walls and a bark door, which Marianne spotted lying half-buried in the snow. It’s a bit redundant, as the pair of them are too tall to crawl through it and do much better just stepping over the walls. Either way, it’s an achievement. Héloïse runs back inside for a moment as Marianne is packing a little more snow onto the walls, only to return with a blanket, two packets of biscuits and a proud, pink-lipped smile.

So they sit on the blanket inside their fort. Which they could have made bigger, in retrospect, because they have to sit quite close together. Knees and hands touching as they shuffle around and reach in to pick out custard creams and bourbons.

During a comfortable quiet, Héloïse asks, “You feel a bit better?”

Marianne glances up, and then down again. Unable, suddenly, to look at Héloïse for longer than half a second. Thank god for the cold, giving a reason for pink cheeks and noses. She means to say something simple like, “Yes,” or even “Yes, thank you.” But instead comes out with: “Why are you being so nice to me? I’ve been such a mess.”

Marianne says it like a joke. But she can feel Héloïse peering through ever-careful, ever-changing eyes. “Are you embarrassed?” she asks eventually. Which is a question Marianne can’t imagine anyone would ever answer honestly. But she doesn’t need to reply, because Héloïse continues on. “You shouldn’t be. It’s upsetting, not being with family on important days.”

Marianne looks up at last, just as Héloïse glances down. She is biting the corners off a bourbon biscuit, far away already. _Soon,_ Marianne thinks, _she will be shaking herself out of procrastination, and I will see her less. So why not try now? To understand._

So she asks, with all the bluntness she can muster, “Why are you out here alone?”

Héloïse doesn’t have as big a reaction to this as Marianne might have expected. She doesn’t even look up, instead she bites the biscuit in half. “Because I don’t like Christmas,” says Héloïse, “And I’ve got work to do.”

Marianne sits up straighter, squinting a little. “You’re a Scrooge,” she observes.

Héloïse looks up, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m not,” she claims, indignant. “Ebenezer Scrooge was a bitter capitalist who hated Christmas because he got rejected that one time.”

Marianne laughs, a short burst. And curbs the urge to look away as Héloïse’s eyes spark. “A grinch, then,” Marianne corrects herself after a moment of thought.

Héloïse considers this one for longer. Seems to be holding her breath as she thinks. At last, Héloïse inhales through her nose. “That’s not fair,” she says firmly, “The grinch didn’t have a reason to hate Christmas. I have a reason.”

“He had a reason,” Marianne contradicts.

Héloïse hums, a small smile flickering. Tilted head. “What was that?”

Marianne curls her tongue far back in her mouth. “His heart was too small,” she says quietly.

“That sounds like a medical condition,” retorts Héloïse, unimpressed. “And anyway, my heart is a perfectly good size,” she picks up a custard cream and puts it into her mouth whole. Crunching down.

Marianne blinks once, deliberate. She becomes much more conscious of blinking while she is looking at Héloïse, it seems. Marianne sort of wants to minimise her blinking around Héloïse. So that they can have more time to look at each other. And yet, other times, Marianne finds it difficult to even face her. “Then why?” she asks.

Héloïse rolls her eyes. “God, you’re relentless, aren’t you?” she murmurs, still chewing on the biscuit, one hand raised to cover her mouth. After she swallows, Héloïse puts the gloved hand down on her knee. And sits there for what seems like some time, staring at the packet of biscuits between them on the blanket.

And then: “My sister loved Christmas, actually,” says Héloïse.

Sister. Loved. Past tense.

A shake of the head. “Wasn’t religious at all, but she just loved the music and the food and the decorations and the feeling. Snow,” Héloïse looks up, and her eyes are beaming, glittery blue. “She loved snow.”

Loved.

That little girl in the photograph, back at the house.

Héloïse goes quiet again for another while. She wipes her mouth with two fingers. “Her favourite movie was The Snowman,” says Héloïse. And then, heightening her voice, she quietly sings: _“We’re walking in the air.”_

Another long pause, before Héloïse continues. “I can’t watch it anymore,” she says, quieter. Eyes deathly focused on the biscuits. “She was the main reason I ever found this season any fun, and without her here, it doesn’t matter like it used to. My mother’s the same about Christmas. She doesn’t want to make a fuss out of it.”

More silence. That seems to be the end of it. And really, what more is there to say, after that? What can be said.

Marianne tries anyway. “I’m sorry for calling you a grinch,” she says. Watches as Héloïse looks up, expressionless. Marianne adds, “I don’t think the grinch would have built a snow fort half as good as this one.”

Héloïse smiles. Not very big, but genuine. “You helped,” she says. Fond. And then Héloïse straightens, and slaps her thighs. “But my ears are getting cold.”

Héloïse picks up the biscuits and heaves, standing, careful not to knock over the carefully constructed walls. And, as she steps over the fort, she calls down to Marianne: “I’m not.”

Marianne tilts her head back and squints up. “Not what?”

Héloïse makes it over the wall, and turns back around to peer in. “You said I was alone,” she says. Glimmering. “But you’re here, aren’t you?”

Marianne feels something soft and warm pour within her, like hot chocolate through her veins. Standing to roll up the blanket and follow, she pulls at the finger of her glove. Héloïse’s glove. Once fitted to Héloïse’s hand, stretching and curving around her corners. If Marianne shuts her eyes, can she feel it there? Héloïse’s hand, the shape, the warmth? The dent of her knuckles, rivers of blue veins. The shoes too. The hat Marianne wore earlier today. All these clothes; a mould of Héloïse.

\--

In the evening, they watch another Twilight movie together. They have separate blankets, but their shoulders and arms find each other partway through. And soon they are slightly leaning on each other, and Marianne finds it harder to concentrate on the movie.

When it’s ended, Héloïse is still awake. But Marianne peers at her, at her drooping eyes, a deep yawn that she hides behind her wrist.

So, in one breath, Marianne offers: “Why don’t you take your bed back?”

Héloïse casts her a look. Marianne protests. “I can sleep on the couch,” she suggests, “it’s comfy.”

Héloïse blinks once. “I sleep,” she insists, but there is something caught in her tone of voice.

Marianne narrows her eyes. “Where? Not on the couch.”

Héloïse doesn’t hide her alarm. “How do you know that?”

Well, there we go. “I didn’t for sure, but based on your reaction, I’m right,” Marianne smiles at Héloïse’s irritation, but sighs, pulling her knees up to her chest. “You’re exhausted, I know you are.”

Héloïse shuts her eyes, and gives a tiny head shake. “I sleep,” she says, nearly a whisper. “Not very well. But I do sleep.”

When she opens her eyes again, there is a sheen of pale grey. Héloïse inhales, turning her head aside and pushing a hand through her hair. “I don’t need the bed,” she seems to be speaking almost to herself. “I need to write.”

\--

In the night, Marianne wakes in the pitch black to the sound of snow against the window pane. Her mouth is dry.

She feels her way along the corridor and down the stairs, bleary eyed. Marianne drinks cold water, barefoot in the kitchen, and stares out at the snow, turned grey in the night. The ticking of a clock she had barely noticed before, hung on the wall reading twenty past four. When she wanders back through the rooms, there is an absence of Héloïse on the couch. Marianne stares at the empty space for a while, before leaving, the chill nipping at her ankles and cheeks.

But, at the top of the stairs, Marianne sees light under Héloïse’s door.

Twenty past four in the morning.

Marianne moves closer to the door, listening for the clacking of laptop keys, or rustling pages. None of it. Marianne reaches for the handle, and presses down slowly, as to not make a noise. And pushes inward.

It’s freezing in the room. There is a soft hum of electricity from the lightbulb in the ceiling, and a similar sound coming from the open laptop. The screen still blaring, a word document, blank as the snow outside Marianne’s window. Taunting. Before it, Héloïse’s head is on the desk, folded into her arms. Shoulders heaving, sound asleep. The electrical whine of the laptop must be sweet as a lullaby, to her.

Marianne stands, rather numb, in the doorway. Not surprised – maybe too tired to be surprised, though she feels more awake now.

She hugs herself around the middle. Such a cold room.

And an idea comes to mind.

Marianne leaves the office for a moment, tiptoeing back across the landing to her (to Héloïse’s) room. There are spare blankets in a small chest of drawers at the end of the bed. Marianne picks out a particularly fleecy one, and carries it over to Héloïse’s office, where she carefully drapes it over Héloïse’s shoulders.

It’s the barest sliver of kindness, really. Basic decency, more like. It was rude enough to enter without knocking. Héloïse will probably be worried or embarrassed or annoyed about this in the morning, but that moment will come when it does. All that matters now is that this room is cold, and this sleeping position is uncomfortable, and Héloïse should not be either of those things. Never be cold. Never uncomfortable.

So Marianne will make it warmer. And she will turn the light off too.

As she leans over Héloïse, Marianne notices that the word document is not completely blank. There is, fact, one word there. Twelve or thirteen size font, Dante. The cursor blinking a thin, questioning line after the final letter, awaiting more.

It reads: _She._


	6. angel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not quite the new year where I am, still a few hours to go. But I'm sure it's 2021 for some of you, so I want to say well done!!! You made it through this godforsaken shithole of a year!!! And thank you dearly for reading all my little (and not very little) things. It really means so much to me, especially all the comments. But even if you don't interact, thank you for reading, thank you for enjoying.
> 
> I hope this chapter serves as a nice new years gift. <3 <3 <3

The snow has stopped by morning, and so Marianne shuffles out into the cold to wander up the road near the library and call Sophie.

After some catching up: “I hear you’re getting along,” pipes Sophie, before clarifying, “with Héloïse.”

Marianne has been swirling patterns in the snow with the tip of her boot. She pauses, looking up as though Sophie could be in front of her. “She’s been onto you?” Marianne asks. And, by extension, thinks of Héloïse sleeping in her office. Strong, heaving shoulders, a mess of pale hair. Blinking cursor on a snow-white screen. _She._

“Oh, shit,” Sophie clicks her tongue down the receiver, tugging Marianne into the present. “She swore me to secrecy, actually.”

She. She. Overthinking it, obviously. But Marianne can’t keep the word out of her mouth as she presses for information. “So, she has been.” The word is starting to lose its meaning. A singular, hissing syllable and parted teeth.

“My mouth is zipped,” says Sophie. Humming silence, and then, eager, “But you are, aren’t you? Getting on well?”

Marianne tries to think about the question seriously, turning her head up into the washed-out sky. “She’s sort of odd. But so am I,” Marianne wrinkles her nose at the various memories that pop up. Each cringeworthy instance interrupted by peering, iridescent eyes, and a twitching pink mouth. Veiny hands and wrists. “I’ve embarrassed myself countless times and she’s still putting up with me,” says Marianne.

Beat. “I didn’t know about her sister,” Marianne says, somewhat numb, turning her gaze out onto the horizon, and wandering along the pathway. “Your cousin too.”

Sophie doesn’t say anything at first. “I didn’t think it would come up,” she admits in the end, surprise and gloom mixed together in her breath. “In fairness, I thought you’d only be there for a little while,” another pause, Marianne grinding snow and ice beneath her heels. “Will I tell you what happened?” asks Sophie.

Marianne narrows her eyes, and considers the question. In the end, she says, “No. That’s alright,” not because she doesn’t want to know. “I’m sorry, though.”

“Thanks,” replies Sophie, faint. She clears her throat. “I’m surprised Héloïse told you at all. She’s kind of secretive.”

Marianne smiles to herself, memory fizzing on her tongue, in the fingers that clutch the phone to her ear. “Oh, I know.”

Sophie laughs, abrupt and triumphant. “Oh, for god’s sake,” Marianne pictures an eye roll. “You’re interested in her, aren’t you?”

Marianne stops walking, and curls her tongue around her two front teeth.

“The silence is telling, Marianne.”

Marianne inhales through her nose, and lets the tension go from her jaw, rotating it. “I’m in a little bit of denial,” she says, and feels redness high in her cheeks. “But, yes.”

Sophie hums a tune. And asks, breathless for no reason, “Are you going to do something about it?”

Marianne blinks. She turns her head, looking back at her footsteps in the snow.

\--

Marianne walks in just as Héloïse is coming down the stairs, an empty mug in hand. And at the sight of Marianne’s shape unfurling in the doorway, Héloïse slows her pace until she is at a standstill on the last step. Her mouth open a little, trembling eyes, one hand splayed flat against the apple cider wall.

They haven’t seen each other since Héloïse went to bed last night. But Marianne saw her when she opened the office door, and covered Héloïse with a blanket, desperate to make her safe and warm. It would be difficult to deny that it had happened, as they are alone together in this house, and staring at each other with eyes that know and will look away.

But Marianne doesn’t quite have the strength to bring it up so directly, and so soon after. Instead, she asks, “Are you still looking for a reason not to write?”

Héloïse blinks once, and softens. Sagging shoulders, taking the last step to descend the stairs. “My agent would hate you,” Héloïse says, looking into her empty cup. Not answering the question. She lingers, one hand on the banister, blinking down. Before turning her head back around to face Marianne. “What are you thinking?”

Marianne drums her fingertips against the doorframe. “There’s a town,” she exhales, urging herself on in the gaps between words, “isn’t there? I haven’t been, but I passed it on the way up here,” she moves her head, jerking it backwards and out the door. “We could head up there and eat something later,” blinking, nervous. “Have some fun.”

Héloïse pushes her lips together, but can’t contain a smile, which flowers as she asks, “Just us?”

Marianne rubs the length of her nose, smiling back with little restraint. “Who else?”

Marianne means it in a literal sense of course. But, in this little bubble of time, in nowhere land, is there anyone else? Or maybe they’re all snow-people and fir trees out there, and all the houses beyond the woods are empty. If it was just her and Héloïse, would Marianne be surprised?

\--

There isn’t a lot to see in the local town – which is more of a village, really. And it would be perfectly ordinary were it not for the snow that blankets, tucked carefully into each corner. Frost on car windows, trembling trees. Gaggles of children rush past, pushing and giggling. One knocks into Marianne and stumbles, nearly falling. Before Marianne can ask him if he’s alright, the child has turned bright red, flush against the blank backdrop. He scrambles away, the tassels of his woollen hat streaming out behind him, and his friends laughing in the distance.

Marianne has her hat inside out again. “I don’t think any of the shops would let me in if I wore it properly,” she tells Héloïse, who is biting hard on her lip, and only nods in response.

Héloïse knows the town well, and gives Marianne a small tour: second-hand bookshop, club, tiny cinema, newsagents, pharmacy. There is a supermarket being built, the construction halted until the snow passes, because the only other one is a fifteen minute walk away – which might not seem like much, but when you don’t have a car it’s a trek to come back with all the bags.

Marianne is trying to listen as Héloïse lists off these things, and reveals morsels of information. But she keeps being distracted by the tip of Héloïse’s rounded nose, which has gone red, or her dramatic strides, refusing to slow down. Exhalations of icy breath, tugging at the ends of her gloves. The tiny, excited leaps she does when they’re coming towards a place she likes.

When Héloïse does these things, Marianne forgets how to breathe.

Above the aforementioned bookshop, Héloïse reveals, is a café. They enter, scrubbing slushy, snowy boots on the rough welcome mat. Héloïse greets the booksellers and staff. Marianne casts her eyes over the tall shelves. Muddled, multicoloured spines. Ladders to climb and reach from. Héloïse guides Marianne past it all to some stairs, which take them to the café.

The old man behind the counter wears coke-bottle glasses and a Christmas jumper, showing a snowman with a cowboy hat. “Héloïse!” he throws his hands into the air. “Merry Christmas!”

“Not there yet, Youssef,” says Héloïse as they approach, and does not return the greeting. “This is Marianne.”

Youssef beams at Marianne with warm eyes, crinkled at the corners, and a handshake over the counter. “Marianne,” he repeats, “your hat is inside out.”

Oh. “It is,” agrees Marianne. She takes the hat off but doesn’t fix it and put it back on, instead folding it up in her hands and shoving it into her pocket. She smiles, closed mouth and sheepish at Youssef.

Youssef turns away with risen, silvery eyebrows. “You don’t often bring guests, Héloïse.”

“She’s staying with me,” Héloïse explains, and glances over at Marianne. Eyes dipping, shy. “For an unforetold future.”

Youssef nods at Marianne, sympathetic. “Unexpected weather,” he says with understanding. “Poor timing. And yet,” he throws a hand towards the long windows opposite, which look like paintings from a distance. “So beautiful.”

They order hot chocolate and muffins, which is not exactly the healthiest meal, but Marianne feels too light to care about that sort of thing – and anyway, she ate earlier. They take a seat at a table by one of the long windows, which is small and square, a chair either side. When Marianne sits down opposite Héloïse, their shoes touch.

Soon after, Youssef comes back with two mugs of hot chocolate, and a plate balanced on the length of his arm, with two muffins – one poppyseed lemon, the other mixed berry. “Snow was falling,” he says as he bends to place the servings on the table, slow and dramatic. “So much like stars filling the dark trees that one could easily imagine its reason for being,” a mug in front of Marianne, pink and white marshmallows. “Was nothing more than prettiness,” Youssef glances up at last, head tilted towards Marianne. “Now, who said that?”

Marianne blinks, a smile quivering in her eyes and opening mouth. “Mary Oliver?”

Youssef straightens, standing again, and turns his head to Héloïse with a crooked grin. “She’s a good one, Héloïse,” he says loudly, and Marianne laughs, watching him turn away. “Keep her.”

Héloïse is leaning into her hand – gloves stripped away onto the table. Pink-faced and shaking her blonde head. “I’ll have to let her go some time,” she calls after Youssef, “unfortunately.”

Héloïse turns back, fixing her posture, reaching for the little teaspoon that came with the mug. She glances up, meeting Marianne’s eyes. Marianne catches herself, but doesn’t immediately break away. Instead she flushes, smiles. Reaching for her berry muffin on the plate between them. Héloïse blinks at the table and runs two fingers along her jaw, from earlobe to chin.

Unfortunately, she said. Unfortunately.

\--

Afterwards, not quite ready to stumble out into the cold, they browse the books downstairs. Peering at each other through gaps in the shelves.

“How many books do you own?” Marianne asks, flicking through a dog-eared edition of Granta 54.

Héloïse, on the other side of the bookshelf, doesn’t respond immediately. When she does, she sounds bewildered. “I don’t know. I’ve never counted.”

Marianne glances up, as though if she tries, she could see right through the books, all the pages, to the shape of Héloïse. She places the Granta book back where it came from. “Your office seems full of them,” says Marianne, trying to sound normal. Trying not to think about Héloïse sleeping at her desk.

Héloïse hesitates, but replies, “There are more under the stairs,” diverting. Footsteps along the floorboards. Marianne copies them, tailing after her even with the books between them. “And at my mother’s house.”

“Have you read all the books on your shelves?” asks Marianne.

“All of them,” no hesitation there. “Lots of them twice. Some of them multiple times.”

Marianne smiles at no-one. If she were to pick out one of the books here, at eye level, they might be looking at each other. She’s not brave enough, instead moving on, “What do you write about? I never asked.”

“Mostly ordinary things,” is the reply, “There are elements of magical realism sometimes. Horror, once. That didn’t go well.”

A laugh, breathy, from the other side. Footsteps which Marianne anxiously tries to match. “I know I’m not selling it very well, but I love writing,” Héloïse sounds weightless, “I really do.”

The walking stops. Marianne trails a gloved finger along the spines, and listens as Héloïse begins to speak again. “You know, when I was a teenager I used to say that all I wanted was to go live completely alone, and write and read forever,” a pleased humming noise, “And now I’m living the dream.”

Marianne smiles, huffing air from her nose. “I’m sorry to barge in on your life,” she says.

A pause. And then, quickly, a book is removed from between them at eye level. So Marianne can see a dark, risen eyebrow. A wisp of pale hair curling under Héloïse’s hat. And her eyes, clear and urgent. “Don’t be sorry,” she says, as though desperate to make Marianne understand. And then, after what seems like some time of just staring, Héloïse adds, “I like it.”

\--

They spend more time book-shopping than either had intended. Héloïse buys three books, and Marianne buys one too – a graphic novel adaption of the first volume in Marcel Proust’s _‘In Search of Lost Time’._

“Why would anyone ever give this away?” Marianne marvels at it as they step out into the cold, turning it over in gloved hands. The book is hardback, spotless. “And it was only three euro.”

“It was quite controversial when it came out,” Héloïse has her three purchases in a white paper bag, and the pair begin to walk along the path. “The novels are such classics that some people thought a graphic novel adaption was blasphemous.” Héloïse opens her paper bag and offers it out to Marianne.

Marianne slides her book in next to Héloïse’s. “Well, I’ve never read the original, so I’ve nothing to compare it to,” she looks up to see Héloïse’s expression, eyes saucer-shaped. Marianne laughs. “What?”

Héloïse shakes her head, letting the bag swing at her side. “How have you never read it?”

“Well, is it any good?” Marianne asks in jest, and laughs again at Héloïse’s mouth, open in disbelief.

\--

It’s evening now, and knowing winter’s impatience, darkness has fallen. Out here the stars tangle in spindly tree branches, and the night is black and velvet. Neither Marianne nor Héloïse want to duck back inside yet, out of the beautiful chill, so instead they stroll through the town, brushing arms. And come upon a park which Héloïse forgot to mention. Small, gated. A flurry of white snow. As they enter, a park keeper wanders by and tells them the park will close in fifteen minutes. So they walk on around some trees and along the path. On either side, the grass is hidden beneath winter’s bedspread.

Marianne looks over at Héloïse, the wonder in her eyes, which have gone slate grey in the lack of light. She catches Marianne, and sticks out her chin, amused. “What are you looking at?”

You. You, more and more. Marianne inhales through her nose. “I thought you didn’t like Christmas.”

“I don’t.”

“But you…” Marianne opens and shuts her mouth, and laughs, embarrassed at her inability to be articulate. Héloïse is still watching, expectant, so Marianne manages an answer. “You look so happy.”

Maybe that was the wrong thing to say. But the lightness does not lift. Instead, Héloïse looks out across the snowy park, and says: “I like snow.”

A beat. And then Héloïse inhales through her mouth, shoulders rising – a surge. She twists around to Marianne, alight, and takes her arm. Before Marianne can register any of this, she is being pulled along, into the snow. There are remnants there, footsteps, lumpen attempts at snow forts or snowmen. Snow scooped away by eager mittened hands, for throwing at friends. Marianne and Héloïse stumble across it all, panting. “Are you –“ Marianne wheezes, but by then Héloïse has let go of her arm, the thrill of touch vanished into biting cold. Héloïse twists around, and drops her paper bag into the snow. Then she falls. First sitting, then lying back on the snow, long arms and legs stuck out. Coat buttoned up to her chin, a grin spreading on her face.

“What…” Marianne gasps again, hands on knees.

Héloïse tilts her head back, the bomber hat half-fallen off her head in the excitement. She moves her arms and legs, up and down, side to side. Head straightened, eyes glittering in reflection of the sky. “Come here,” she says, and pats the back of her gloved hand against the snow. “With me. We’ll be angels.”

Marianne blinks at her. And, without any argument, joins Héloïse on the ground. The cold, snow nipping at the nape of her neck where her hat is pulled up. She reaches back, yanking it down, and mimics Héloïse’s position. Scrubbing arms and legs furiously along until she hears laughter from beside her. Gleaming, ringing. Louder than she’s ever heard it from Héloïse. It’s infectious. Soon they are both cackling, spluttering into the dark, burning like stars. When Marianne stops laughing, she rests her arms back into those of the snow angel. And accidentally touches Héloïse’s finger. Gloves on, of course. Though Marianne wishes, briefly, that they were bare-handed, that she could feel the peachy, pale skin of Héloïse’s hand.

“We made them too close,” says Héloïse, who has finally caught her breath. She doesn’t move her finger. “Our snow angels are holding hands.”

“Oh no,” says Marianne very softly, without an ounce of feigned regret or embarrassment. She couldn’t muster it if she tried. But she will not try.

They linger there a moment. Not moving. Gloved hands leaning against one another.

Then Marianne’s phone starts buzzing from her pocket. She lurches up, reaching around and pulling out the phone. “It’s Théo,” she beams, glittering eyes. Héloïse sits up and watches Marianne answer. “Hi.”

“Oh, hi,” Théo sounds tired but surprised, “I wasn’t sure if I’d get to you.”

Marianne beams at Héloïse, a flash of teeth. She can feel that the back of her trousers are damp from the snow. “I’m in the park.”

“Now?”

“It’s shutting soon,” Marianne’s eyes soften, crescent moons. “I’m with Héloïse.”

“Oh, right,” Théo hums, as though amused. “I won’t keep you then, just wanted to check in.”

“I’m good,” Marianne is quick to reply, “I miss you all, obviously,” glancing back up at Héloïse, who has two fingers pressed to her pulse point, teeth running along her bottom lip. She hesitates, blinking at Marianne, who says to Théo, “But I’m having fun.”

“I’m glad,” says Théo, and he sounds like he means it.

Marianne says nothing more for a moment. And then squints, an idea washing over her. “Do you want to say hi?”

Héloïse’s sweet expression drops, and she blanches. Before she can refuse, Théo is agreeing in Marianne’s ear, so she hands over the phone. “Here,” she commands, amidst a grin, half-teasing.

Héloïse purses her lips and shakes her head slightly, but takes the phone. She holds it to her ear with both gloved hands. “Hello,” she begins rather seriously, and leaves her mouth hanging for a moment before continuing. “I’m your sister’s captor.”

Marianne can faintly hear Théo’s wheezy laugh, and watches the tension melt from Héloïse’s shoulders and jaw. She listens, and squints over at Marianne. Scrunched nose and crinkled, laughing eyes. “Well, she did sort of scar me initially, but,” Marianne hides her face for a moment, and listens to Héloïse’s breathy laugh. “No,” Marianne pulls her hand away and sees Héloïse’s dipped chin, hooded eyes. A long pause, before: “She’s lovely,” says Héloïse, assured. “Really lovely.”

Héloïse bites her lip but does not look away from Marianne. She continues after a moment, to Théo, “It’s shit that she can’t be up with you for the holiday, but,” a trembling, tentative pause. She blinks, shining eyes. “I’m glad she’s here.”

After that, Héloïse returns the phone, and Marianne chats a little longer. Until the park keeper calls over to them, holding up two fingers and a thumb; three minutes. Héloïse gives a thumbs up and Marianne ends the call with Théo. As they pick themselves out of their dents in the temporary world, Marianne stares at the shapes and feels something prickle high up in her chest. “They’ll be gone by morning,” she says, mostly to herself, disappointment rising like the tide.

Héloïse turns back to cast an eye over them once more. “Yes,” she agrees, the now snowy paper bag clutched in both hands. “But I’ll remember,” she looks up to Marianne, searching, “Won’t you?”

\--

Marianne has a shower when they get back, washing the cold from her body until she burns. Staring at her red feet. But still trying to cling to the gleeful feeling, the touch of fingers and shoulders and shoes. Absent-minded, Marianne decorates the shower door with drawings of hands and noses and eyelashes. Snow boots, books, paper bags.

She gets out of the shower. The mirror on the wall is steamed up too, and Marianne leans against the wall, trailing the shape of faces and bodies in the glass. She draws an angel – not the snow kind, or the pretty kind. Rather, those with a myriad of watchful eyes, and fiery wings. Marianne draws until her eyelids grow heavy.

She dresses in the pyjamas she brought into the bathroom, and leaves for her room. Marianne is sitting on the bed in the doorway when she hears Héloïse come up the stairs and walk across the landing, into the bathroom.

A thought crosses Marianne’s mind, about the bed, about Héloïse sleeping at the desk. Maybe, if she can’t convince Héloïse to let her take the couch, then they could just share the bed. It’s big enough. And if Marianne shuts her eyes, and balls her fists and faces the wall, then she will survive the night. She will convince herself that she is sleeping alone. She will not burn.

Before Marianne can think about this hypothetical any longer, a question comes from the now open door of the bathroom. “Marianne?”

Marianne stands, dazed, and walks over. Into the bathroom, where Héloïse is facing the mirror, which has only half-cleared of steam. The drawings still remains, though some are dripping. Crying angel eyes, melted wax wings, like Icarus. Marianne forgot to wipe the drawings away, She stands there, one hand around her wrist, watching the back of Héloïse’s head. And then inhales, and goes to stand beside her, where Marianne that sees that Héloïse is blinking in disbelief. Thunderstruck, scanning the mirror.

She turns at last, to Marianne. “You’re an artist?” she asks.

Oh. Maybe Marianne hasn’t mentioned that. “Sophie didn’t tell you?”

Héloïse shakes her head a little. Watching, awaiting elaboration. “I thought you were a teacher.”

“I am,” Marianne confirms, “I teach portfolio classes at my old university. But I also do commissions,” she blinks up at a face in the far corner of the mirror, strong jawed, elements of Héloïse, but no-one in particular. “Portraiture.”

Héloïse turns back to the mirror, ogling the many-eyed angel. “You’re so good at it.”

Marianne feels something swell within her, and she smiles, flushed and blinking. After a tentative moment, Marianne nods to a blank space in the steam. Untouched canvas, snow unbroken. “Draw something.”

Héloïse moves her eyes from Marianne back to the mirror, the steam which is clear between them. She blinks heavily, considering. And then reaches out, and presses her hand flat against it. Digging in her thumb, fingers, palm, before pulling away. Through the handprint, Marianne can see the top of their heads and the ceiling of the bathroom.

Marianne shakes her head, but is smiling with teeth. “That doesn’t count.”

Héloïse shrugs, stubborn and pleased. “Somebody would call that art.”

They are looking at each other again. Marianne squints at Héloïse’s smug expression, and turns her gaze away to the handprint. She reaches up, and bends her wrist. Marianne presses the heel of her palm to the heel of Héloïse’s, and leaves her handprint upside down. Pressing hard, determined to leave a mark against the cool, misted mirror.

Marianne takes her hand away, wiping it on her jumper. The hands are joined together at each end, like one creature. Like some peculiar, biblical angel. The fingers like wings, eyes embedded in the palms. Temporary. Beautiful. “Now it’s art,” says Marianne, confident.

She turns back to Héloïse to gather reaction. And finds a breathless mouth and a pair of hooded eyes. Seeing through slivers, peering into the depths of Marianne. Dipping, falling down her face as she moves, and Marianne is moving too, before she knows it, before she even notices the craving, clawing in her ribcage, fighting to be free. It lurches out of her when their mouths meet, and flowers bloom from the pristine snow, from tendrils of cold hair and steamed shower doors. A kiss forever witnessed by the mirror, reflected in their handprints.

It’s over too soon. Click and it’s done, pulling away. Marianne leaves her eyes shut for a moment, and opens them again once she can breathe on her own, without Héloïse breathing against her. The two of them, an accordion.

But when she sees Héloïse, the expression she wears is pale and trembling. Darting eyes, unable to look at Marianne. She reaches up a hand, and places a finger along her bottom lips. “I’m,” she says, hollow sounding. “Tired,” and then, contradicting, already leaving, “I’m going to write.”

And she’s going for the door. With no-one to stop her, because Marianne is stuck to the tiles. Héloïse is gone, out the door. Soon after Marianne hears the office door shut. And lock.

Marianne turns numbly to her the mirror, in which she is still with disbelief and confusion. Mouth glistening. The wheeze of a folding accordion, reflected there, in her and Héloïse’s handprints. Which are already fading.


	7. warm

Marianne wakes, though she does not remember how or when she got to sleep. She finds herself upside down in bed, her head at the footboard, cocooned in the duvet. Cold feet sticking out the other end. She dreamt of nothing that she can remember, it’s only when she turns onto her back does Marianne recall yesterday, snow angels and steamed mirrors and Héloïse’s mouth. All wonderful until Héloïse locked her door. And Marianne suddenly wants to stay under the covers until she dies.

She stays in her room until eleven, like some sort of sulking teenager. Until she gets hungry. And by then she can only hope that Héloïse is hidden away in some part of the house.

Instead, Marianne opens the door and turns to go down the stairs, just as Héloïse is coming up them with a cup of something. Which Marianne manages to knock into.

“Oh –“

“Oh my god,” it’s all over her. Héloïse’s jumper, which is blue with clouds, is now muddied with a spreading coffee stain. It’s splashed on her trousers too, and dripping from the cup onto the floorboards and her shark slippers.

“Your slippers,” Marianne says, distraught. Which is a ridiculous first thing to notice. She looks up, meeting Héloïse’s unreadable eyes. “Sorry.”

Héloïse doesn’t say anything for a moment, until her face goes traffic-light red, and she looks down again, chin tucking into her neck, and swipes a veiny hand against her jumper. Sucking her lips in, inhaling through her nose.

Marianne hovers, unsure what to say. A hand to her forehead. Héloïse is holding the now mostly empty mug away from herself, and brushing at her jumper with her other hand. Before she can stop herself, Marianne is asking, “Are you going to take that off?”

Oh god. Shit. That came out wrong. No, wait, that’s not -

Héloïse hesitates before looking up and staring with complete alarm. Marianne thinks she might have flatlined, which might be for the best, honestly. “Not here,” Héloïse says eventually, strangled in tone.

“No,” agrees Marianne after a dreadful silence. “Of course not. That’s not what I meant.” Stop thinking about it, stop visualising it.

Héloïse might have gone redder, if that’s possible. She slowly averts her eyes, and steps past Marianne, towards her bedroom door. Which is really where Marianne should leave her, and for a moment Marianne manages to stay facing the stairs. But instead, she inhales through her mouth, and turns around with one hand held up to her throat. “Are you angry with me?” she asks Héloïse’s back.

Héloïse pauses in her doorway, turning her head to face Marianne. Her hair is unkempt, the bags under her red-rimmed eyes dark and silver-tinged. “No,” she says, quietly, but seems to be struggling to just face Marianne. She is holding the mug very stiffly in one hand. “It’s just coffee,” Héloïse says.

Marianne’s fingers fold up, scraping at the skin of her neck, pinching. Her legs are full of cement.

It’s not just coffee. That’s not what Marianne meant. But she can’t push herself any further. “I can make you another cup?” she offers instead.

Héloïse looks away quickly, to the door hinges “I don’t need it,” she utters.

Marianne nods before Héloïse finishes her sentence. Recalling, understanding. Pulling one hand behind her back. “You need to write,” Marianne says.

Héloïse looks up again. Something wobbling in her tired eyes. Marianne wants to beg her to rest. Take the bed, for god’s sake. I’ll sleep downstairs tonight. I’ll sleep in the snow if you want me to.

Yesterday, she could have said anything she wanted, fearless. Now Marianne’s tongue is made of lead. “I’ll leave you alone,” she manages, before clinging to the banister, walking carefully down the stairs. Listening as the door of Héloïse’s office shuts.

\--

Marianne stays downstairs for the afternoon, avoiding the upper floor as much as possible. She makes breakfast, mourns the Christmas dinner she’ll be missing, reads the Proust graphic novel. Makes lunch a little late. She is eating the sandwich at the table, trying to avoid thinking about anything, when upstairs, a door opens.

Marianne stops breathing to listen as Héloïse descends. She fumbles in the corridor, creaking as she sits on the last step. To put on shoes?

Marianne counts to ten and leaves the kitchen, into the living room. Approaching the corridor, by which time Héloïse is winding a dark blue scarf around her neck by the door. She looks around to Marianne like she’s been caught. Different jumper – this one is plain, dark green, hanging over her hips.

Marianne doesn’t dare move from the doorway to the living room. “Going out?”

A nod, look away to pull the coat on. “Library.”

Marianne nods. And can’t move. Instead she watches the floorboards, and listens as Héloïse buttons the coat, jingles the keys, pulls on her hat. All the while Marianne is kicking herself. The question is buzzing in her teeth, in her breath. “Did I do something wrong?”

But she can’t ask it. She shuts her mouth. When Héloïse leaves, the cold air lingers inside the door, and Marianne walks over to stand in it until her skin prickles.

\--

And it will probably all end here.

Probably.

But somewhere in the following hour, Marianne’s pride and embarrassment and patience crack. She’s scrolling mindlessly through her photos when it occurs to her, like some sort of Christmas miracle epiphany bullshit. And suddenly Marianne is shot up, stumbling for her jacket and long red scarf and hat – that cursed, awful hat, which she puts on properly because fuck it all. She can’t find the gloves Héloïse lent her, so once Marianne steps out into the biting cold, she stuffs her hands in her pockets.

It hasn’t actually snowed in a few days. And the snow on the road is turning to slush, somewhat. Marianne thinks that it’s probably not that cold. But turns out that’s just the adrenaline talking, and the second Marianne steps foot in the library, the cold sets in her bones. Her teeth are chattering, numb fingers yanking the scarf up to her chin. Marianne scrambles up towards the bookshelves, slipping along the floorboards, looking through all the aisles.

“Marianne.”

Breaking the quiet of a mostly empty library. Marianne whirls around, forcing her teeth to quit chattering, and sees Héloïse walking quickly towards her with knitted eyebrows. Marianne scurries over to meet her, everything a rush.

“Why aren’t you wearing gloves?” asks Héloïse once they reach each other, which is sweet but unimportant in the face of Marianne’s question, which she demands loudly, “Why did you kiss me and run off?”

Héloïse forgets her own question, looking up from Marianne’s shivering hands. “Not so loud,” she says, eyes darting over Marianne’s shoulder.

Marianne rolls her eyes. “Oh for god’s sake,” and searches the room quickly, gesturing to one of the bookshelves in the far corner. “There’s a queer lit section over there. Nobody cares.”

Héloïse makes an exhalation, which could be a laugh, but she’s still not looking at Marianne. “That’s not what I mean,” she says, quietly.

Marianne is only now beginning to calm from her race through the snow, regulating her breath, taking in Héloïse. And remembering the hat she is wearing, just as an old woman passes by, staring at the top of Marianne’s head in alarm. Marianne quickly tugs the hat off. And then rounds on Héloïse, awaiting an answer.

Héloïse bites her lip in that adorable manner, and then reaches out, taking Marianne’s wrist in firm, gloved fingers. Pulling her through the shelves, to a far corner, away from everyone. When they are hidden by shelves of nonfiction, Héloïse lets go, and turns to face Marianne. They spend a few moments breathing and staring.

Until Héloïse responds, a near-whisper. “I shouldn’t have kissed you,” she says, serious. “You’re vulnerable. You’re upset.”

Marianne squints, and folds her arms. “Yes I’m upset. You kissed me and fucked off like it never happened.”

“I mean -,” Héloïse bites on the inside of her cheek, and appears to be supressing a laugh, her eyes travelling all along the ceiling as though to distract herself. After composure, she continues, hushed, “You’re supposed to be with your family and you’re not.”

Marianne concedes. “That’s true.”

“And you’ve already cried, like, three times while you’re staying here.”

“Twice. I was on my period, I get emotional.”

Héloïse inhales through her nose, hissing air, and rubs her bottom lip with one gloved finger. “I didn’t want to make you feel any worse.”

“Worse?” Marianne’s eyes bulge, flabbergasted. Héloïse stares as though she doesn’t understand, so Marianne lets her arms drop either side, and sighs. “You don’t make me feel any worse, Héloïse,” she says, low in tone, “You make me feel… inarticulate. And giddy. And warm.”

“Stop,” Héloïse’s gloved hand, risen to cover her face.

“What?”

A pause, shaking head. “You’re so weird,” says Héloïse, hot breath into her own palm. Then the fingers pull away, curled into a fist. Revealing shut eyes and a pink mouth, a trembling smile. “You’re so cute. Can you stop?”

Marianne doesn’t want to blink. Doesn’t want to miss a moment of this expression, this emerging bliss. Mindless, Marianne reaches out with her hands, which have warmed slightly, but nothing in comparison to Héloïse’s face. The strong angle of her jaw and cheeks. Marianne steps closer, watching Héloïse’s eyes open. Less tired than they were this morning. Not tired at all, in fact. Only pale and ethereal. Precious like glass, like snow globes.

Marianne sighs, stroking her thumbs along Héloïse’s cheekbones. “So warm,” she murmurs, and leans as she says it, into Héloïse’s lips. Angling her nose just before she gets there, and then pressing, with all the tension and chill ebbing from her bones. Somewhere below, Héloïse takes hold of the scarf wound around Marianne’s neck, and clings to it.

When the kiss ends, as it must do, unfortunately, Marianne doesn’t move away completely. She stays by Héloïse’s face, opening her eyes, which shut somewhere along the way. And meeting Héloïse’s half-lidded gaze. Which has gone dark. Her lips are parted and red as pomegranate seeds.

“I want you,” says Marianne, as firmly as she can. “I do.”

Héloïse blinks, and her gaze drops down. She stares at Marianne’s mouth without apology. When she speaks, there is something underneath her voice. Like a shark beneath a frozen lake. “In that case,” Héloïse says, “we should probably get back.”

\--

So they get back. On the way, they walk closely, and Marianne apologises for the coffee spill to distract from her own heartbeat. Which is thrumming all over, not just in her chest. In her throat and ears, in the fingertips she has hidden in her pockets. Arms and legs. Elsewhere.

Marianne forgot to bring the key Héloïse lent her, so she waits and watches Héloïse unlock the door, sucking her teeth to keep them from chattering.

Inside, Marianne scrubs her feet on the mat, and leans against the door, shutting it. “God,” she breathes onto her hands, palms and knuckles, and rubs them together. “I think I need a shower. Fucking freezing.” She remembers the hat she is wearing, and pulls it off.

A moment passes as Marianne untangles the red scarf from her neck, and then looks up at Héloïse, who is standing by the stairs, pink-cheeked, breathing manually. The hat pulled off her head.

They stare at each other, until Marianne offers meekly: “Do you want to join me?”

It might be a joke. Maybe. She’s not really sure, actually, and now immensely regrets saying it. Worst way to proposition anyone ever, well done Marianne. But Héloïse flushes deeper and snorts, reaching up to push a strand of hair out of her eye. “I – In theory, yes,” she stammers, unable to quite look at Marianne. Smiling. “But that might be a bit ambitious for a first…” she acquires an expression of panic and goes still, “for a…”

“Yes,” Marianne saves her from having to say it in full. “No. You’re right,” she stares at the floor for a moment and then looks up again, daring herself to look Héloïse in the eye. “Shower sex is always better in fanfiction.”

Héloïse blinks. “Fanfiction?” she asks, flat-toned at first. But then she grins, eyes sparkling. Her tone is thrilled. “You read fanfiction?”

Marianne can’t take it back now. “When I was a teenager, yes,” she rotates her jaw, and stares as Héloïse raises a hand to cover her mouth. “Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not!” says Héloïse, which is not strictly a lie. She’s just smiling, very wide. She shuffles, toeing off her wellies. “I never did get into fanfiction writing.”

Marianne hums. “It’s never too late,” and scratches the back of her head. “It did affect future romantic experiences for me. Not as much battling tongues as I anticipated.”

Héloïse laughs, scrunching eyes. She ducks her head, eyes risen and watching as the grin fades into a smile, half-bitten away. “Well, I’m glad we’re being practical about this,” she says. Still not strictly saying what ‘this’ is.

“Yes,” Marianne agrees. Something flitting her in chest, twirling ribbon around her ribs. She sucks in a breath, and unzips the jacket, moving towards the stairs. “Practical is the word.”

Héloïse leans back against the banister, one hand flexing against the wooden posts. Eyes adoring, clawing from afar. She’s too far away, even as Marianne approaches, and is stood beside her. Never close enough.

If they kiss now then the practicality will shrivel and vanish. So Marianne musters all her strength and tears herself away, up the stairs, knowing that Héloïse is watching as she goes.

\--

Anxiety and excitement have a lot in common. The trembling limbs, sweaty palms and butterflies. A fine line. Marianne can’t decide which she is feeling as she steps out of the shower, dripping onto the bathmat, her hair shedding rivulets of warm water down her back. She dries, and dresses in the comfy clothes she brought with her. Slowly.

She will find Héloïse when she steps out of the bathroom. And what then?

Marianne shivers by the door. And winds her hands around the handle, pushing down, pulling in.

She leaves the room, turning down the corridor to see Héloïse waiting by the stairs. Looking up already, down the unlit hallway, at Marianne.

Marianne exhales shakily, and watches as Héloïse lets go of the banister she was leaning on, and comes towards Marianne with a mouth already open. Taking her by the upper arms and steering until Marianne’s back is flat against the wall, a gasp knocked from her lungs, turning high-pitched along the way. Only to be swallowed by Héloïse, who is kissing with a ferocity that Marianne didn’t know she possessed.

Her hands are warm. Pushing back around Marianne’s neck, up into her wet hair. Thigh to thigh, chests pressing, Héloïse breaks the kiss to speak. “I didn’t need to write,” she says, urgent, desperate for Marianne to know. Kissed again. “I needed this,” and again. “This.”

\--

They get to the bed eventually.

\--

Sometime afterwards, Héloïse comes back through the door with two glasses of water. The shadow of her, bare, in the doorway, is so glorious that Marianne nearly wants to ask if she would stay there a moment. Just so Marianne can marvel. But it’s even better for Héloïse to come in and kiss her, and hand her the glass of water before crawling into bed.

Into _her_ bed. “Hm,” Marianne smiles, swallowing the water.

Héloïse slides down under the covers, and eyes Marianne with a soft suspicion. “What?”

Marianne shrugs playfully, and places the half-emptied glass on the nightstand. “Maybe you’ll actually sleep tonight.”

When she turns back, Héloïse’s eyes are narrowed, but she is smiling. “I don’t know,” Héloïse shifts, moving onto her side. “I might be too distracted.”

They only stare at each other for a moment, because they can, without worrying what the other must think. “Can we stay in here for a bit?” asks Marianne quietly, “We can eat later. But I just want to be here, for a while.”

Héloïse blinks, and nods silently and quickly, as though any alternative had never occurred to her. As though they could stay in bed forever, and it would not matter.

Marianne thinks of something. She leans to the edge of the bed, patting around on the floor until she finds it. Marianne pulls back with the graphic novel in her hands, _The Little Prince._ She moves closer to Héloïse, and starts flicking, admiring the artwork. “What did you think of this?” she asks.

Héloïse peers through the drawings as Marianne turns the pages. “I haven’t read it,” she says.

Marianne pauses, and turns to squint at Héloïse, cogs turning. “I thought you’d read everything on your shelves.”

Héloïse looks up too, meeting Marianne’s eyes. “It’s not my book,” she says, bemused, “It’s yours. I got it for you.”

Marianne stares.

Héloïse shuffles around, propping up her head with one hand, an elbow dug into the white pillow. “When you were sick, I texted Sophie asking what kind of books you like. She said graphic novels or comics, but I didn’t have any of those so I walked up to the village and bought you that in the second-hand bookshop.”

Marianne is still staring. “You got it for me,” she says, hushed, in awe.

Héloïse blinks, suddenly nervous. “Was that a weird thing to do?” she asks, matching Marianne’s whisper, with additional timidness.

Marianne shakes her head, at the same time leaning close, and kissing Héloïse’s mouth. Then moving to her ear, shrouded by tousled, undone hair. “Thank you,” she says, low and trembling, and not enough to express how she is feeling. But it will do, for now.

\--

Later in the evening, Héloïse reads _The Little Prince_ graphic novel. Marianne lies next to her, half reading along, half watching Héloïse’s expression. The twinges of smiles, the blinking eyes. The shadow that crosses her face each time she turns a page.


	8. slush

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hi! I'm alive!   
> I got a comment from somebody the other day (the other day? the other week? honestly could not tell you) who was worried about me because I hadn't been posting, and initially I thought "Oh, it hasn't been that long, has it?" And yet, it actually has been that long.  
> I'm sorry for not posting, but also not incredibly sorry, because I do like to prioritise the aul mental health. And I have been quite stressed recently, and by extension, burnt out. And even if I had forced myself to put up a chapter (which would have been an awful idea) it would have been shite. We have to be patient with ourselves.  
> I'm not incredibly certain about the quality of this chapter. All I know is that I experienced a burst of inspiration and thought 'oh shit I should probably captalise on this' so I did and it is very late (or very early), but I actually finished a chapter!!! And I have been trying to finish this chapter for nearly two months, so. Props to me.  
> No promises of immediately going back to regular or semi-regular updates. Again, I am prioritising my own mental health as we should all always do. I'll see how it goes. This too will pass, etc. etc. I do hope you enjoy this chapter just a little bit.

The book is still in bed with them when Marianne wakes. Poking her in the shoulder. Half asleep, she pats around and takes hold of the flat hardback. Marianne stands the book on the duvet, so that it casts a rectangular shadow. They forgot to shut the blinds last night, so the morning light is pale and frosty, illuminating tiny specks of dust. The sunlight has been segmented by bare tree branches. It shines white on the top of Héloïse’s shoulders, which are peeking out of the duvet. On her neck too. Her head is on the pillow, a strand of pale hair against her delicate cheek. Eyes shut. She looks small, Marianne thinks.

She doesn’t know how long passes like this. Marianne places the book gently on the floor, and lies back down. Soon, Héloïse’s eyes open, finding Marianne in an instant. And for a moment they are only staring at each other. Until Héloïse inhales, heaving shoulders, her nose and eyes scrunching as a smile quickly spreads. Tucking her chin away, shy and shining.

They can only look at each other for a moment. Before Marianne lights up, thinking of something. She rolls towards Héloïse, fingers to her cheek. “Get up,” she whispers, with glinting eyes, only to be pulled close by a strong hand at the back of her neck. Imperfect, knocking teeth, a breathy laugh, and then sweet oblivion.

They don’t get up just yet.

\--

They eat first. Get distracted. Finish eating. Then, in the hallway, they bundle up in coats and scarves. They take their hats, but once they’ve shut the door and are stood in the crisp white outdoors, Marianne lunges for Héloïse’s bomber hat, taking it from her hands and pulling it onto her own head, alit with a grin. Héloïse splutters, swiping with gloved hands. “What are you –“ breathless and pink-cheeked already as Marianne ducks away. “Give that back!”

Crunching footsteps. Marianne tugs on the ear flaps. “I think this one suits me.”

“It-“ Héloïse doesn’t deny it, only pursing her lips. After a moment, she gestures to her own head, the stuck-up wisps of pale hair. “What’ll I do, then?”

Marianne waggles her eyebrows. “I have an idea,” she says, and brandishes the black bobble hat in her hands.

Héloïse blanches, and lurches away, crying out in protest. But Marianne gives chase, stumbling through the thinning snow, and eventually catches up. Somewhere in the mess, Héloïse finds herself with folded arms and furrowed eyebrows, wearing the _PUSSY IS GOD_ hat, pulled lopsided on her head. Definitely not smiling. Definitely not trying to fight a grin.

“It suits you.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.”

“It’s yours now.”

“It is _not!_ This is your curse to break – Marianne!“

And so occurs another chase, and a tackle, and a near-fall in the snow.

\--

They go walking through the fir trees, and lament over the melting den.

Melting. That’s odd. Brownish slush, and there are gaps in the snow now. The crushed grassy floor, re-emerging, undefeated.

But neither say anything about it. Too caught up in giddiness, and new looks – which are really just the looks they’ve been giving each other this whole time, but with confidence now. No doubt, no wondering do you feel the same? Am I going mad? Should we just leave this be?

None of that. Freedom to kiss recklessly, frosty lips and pink noses. Only, Héloïse keeps trying to steal her hat back, which won’t do. So Marianne, in an attempt to deflect, dives for a patch of snow and scoops it into a ball in her hands. She turns, facing Héloïse with risen eyebrows and a flustered, daring smile.

Héloïse freezes. “You wouldn’t.”

She would. Marianne launches the snowball, but Héloïse dives away. It just about clips her shoulder, and Marianne laughs as Héloïse’s jaw drops in horror. Soon, she is gathering her own snowball, and Marianne squeals and runs to hide behind a tree. Héloïse misses her completely, but is going for a second round.

It’s full blown before they know it. Héloïse’s aim is horrific. Marianne gets Héloïse twice in the same arm as she covers her face – but, soon, while Héloïse is distracted, Marianne aims and watches the snowball knock the hat from Héloïse’s head, and explode against her hair. Icy water drips down her face into scrunched eyes and a gaping mouth.

Marianne tries to stop laughing. “The hat!” she cries.

“That’s what you’re worried about?” Héloïse is wiping her face. As Marianne approaches, she holds up her gloved hands in defence.

“I’m not going to…” she grins, crosses her heart. “The fight’s over.”

Héloïse makes a noise, low in her throat, and lowers the hands as Marianne stands before her. Trying to swallow her giggles as she looks at Héloïse’s dark, furrowed brows and shining nose. Her yellow hair is dappled with ice and snow. Marianne reaches up, fondly pushing the white flakes from her hair. She could make a joke about dandruff. But she won’t.

Just as well, because had she, maybe Héloïse wouldn’t have leaned close to kiss her. Warming chilly cheeks, and feeling gloved fingers grip at her side. Melting like winter.

After the kiss is broken, Marianne removes the bomber hat from her head, and places it on Héloïse’s, like a coronation. “You’ve earned it.”

“I shouldn’t have to earn it, it’s my hat,” mumbles Héloïse, still peering at Marianne’s mouth.

They seem to think of it at the same time. Turning around to see the _PUSSY IS GOD_ hat lying defeated in the white blanket of snow, dampened and icy.

Marianne wanders over to pick it up by the bobble, nose scrunched.

“You’ve done yourself in now, haven’t you?” crows Héloïse, coming up behind Marianne with a grin. “You’ve ruined your own hat.”

“Not ruined,” protests Marianne, “Frankly, I think this hat was already ruined in the designing process. And anyway…” Marianne squints, concentrating. “It’s not that cold, is it?”

Héloïse pauses to think, take in the temperature, the weather. “No,” she agrees, “it’s warmer than it has been.”

They stand there together, mulling it over, the hat shedding melted snow. The moment is only broken when Marianne’s phone buzzes from her pocket. Bundling the sopping hat into one hand, she uses the other to dig out her phone, and see the notification. “Oh!”

“Oh?”

“There must be some service back here, I just got a text,” she opens the message, “from dad.”

 _Hi Marianne, hope you’re keeping well up in that house._ (Marianne smiles. Something like that.) _We’re all missing you over here. The kids were hoping you could video chat for Christmas eve tomorrow. I know you said that might not be possible, but just thought I’d ask. We’re all missing you, xxx, dad._

Marianne blinks at the screen. He always signs off on texts like that. She rereads the message. “Christmas eve,” she says faintly. And looks up at Héloïse. “I forgot the day. But I suppose that’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”

Héloïse looks over her carefully, “It is,” she agrees.

Marianne runs her tongue over her top row of teeth, and sighs, trying to loosen a knot that has been tied high in her chest. She glances back at the message. “I kind of forgot that I’d be missing it. Christmas, with them,” a pause, as Marianne thinks to stuff the bobble hat in her pocket, “My brother and niblings moved away recently, so I haven’t seen them in person for months and months. I was just hoping… looking forward to celebrating.”

Héloïse moves forward, taking Marianne’s now-free hand in her own. Knitted, gloved fingers. Marianne admires how well their hands look together. “I know it’s no consolation,” Héloïse says, after a moment, “but we can celebrate here.”

Marianne peers up through her lashes, chin dipped. “You don’t even like Christmas,” she says, with all the fondness in the world.

“No,” agrees Héloïse, “But I like you.”

Marianne looks up, slowly, eyes shivering with surprise. “You like me?” she asks, her voice a tad higher, like a squeaky teenager.

Héloïse stares, “Yes,” she says, and blinks once, confused, “What did you think…”

“I don’t know,” Marianne cuts in, embarrassed, flushed and smiling. Héloïse laughs at her, a tiny puff of air. And Marianne leans into Héloïse’s shoulder, burying her reddened face into her neck, where she whispers, unsure if she can be heard, “just… nice to hear you say it.”

\--

Back in the house, the hat hangs on the radiator. Marianne listens to the footsteps descend the staircase, until Héloïse comes through into the living room, where Marianne is sat on the couch, her back against the armrest, head lolling on the back pillow. Marianne watches as Héloïse chin dips, a smile spreading quick as a rumour, stretching already pink cheeks, and scrunching her nose and eyes.

Soon she is on Marianne’s lap. Still too tired from their impromptu snowball fight to do anything but kiss lazily, relishing each other like the last of the strawberries in a punnet when winter is approaching.

After some time (who knows how long, though? It’s not like Marianne was watching the clock) Héloïse pulls away and sighs, dropping her head down to Marianne’s shoulder. “Do you want to watch another Twilight movie?”

Marianne turns her head, nose into Héloïse’s hair. And thinks for a moment. “No,” she decides. “I have another idea,” tipping her chin up, “you have to let me up, though.”

Héloïse grunts in complaint, something about being warm and comfortable. But Marianne manages to stand. At the door, she turns, and asks, “Does your laptop play DVDs?”

\--

It does, thankfully. Even if it takes twenty minutes for Héloïse to figure out how it works. Soon the music starts playing, and the title card: _Christmas Eve on Sesame Street,_ fades out into an ice rink.

“I can’t believe you didn’t watch Sesame Street growing up,” Marianne sighs, leaning her head into Héloïse’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you were so deprived.”

Héloïse snorts, watching the characters skate around a Christmas tree. The quality is grainy. “Well, _I_ can’t believe I’m watching a Christmas movie right now,” Héloïse counters mournfully, “A children’s Christmas movie. With puppets.”

Marianne readjusts her sitting position, bringing her knees up to her chest. “Well, I’m sad, so you have to watch it.”

There is a pause, the music blaring from the shitty laptop speaker. Until Héloïse turns her head, Marianne forced to look up from Héloïse’s comfy shoulder. To catch the wobbly concern in pale eyes. “You’re sad?” asks Héloïse.

Marianne melts at the concern. She exhales through her nose as a smile curls at the corners of her mouth, blinking. “Just a bit, yeah,” she says, “You’re wonderful, but I still miss my family.” She turns her head. On screen, credits appear as Bert and Ernie skate around together. “I watch this with them every year,” Marianne recalls, flexing her fingers. “Except this year.”

Turning her head back to Héloïse, whose eyebrows are furrowed, her lip bitten, Marianne asks sweetly, “Have I guilt tripped you successfully?”

Héloïse blinks, softening, taking the whole of her bottom lip into her mouth. “Maybe,” she mumbles.

Marianne smiles, shuffling in her sitting position, feeling the disappointment sink down, low into her bones. “You’ll like it,” she tells Héloïse.

\--

Turns out, Marianne is right.

By the time a little girl is showing Big Bird how to skate, Héloïse is hiding a smile behind her hand. When Oscar the Grouch gets thrown down the stairs she genuinely cackles. And they’re only eight minutes in. It’s not much longer before Héloïse has to admit, it’s adorable.

Once the actual plot kicks in, where Big Bird becomes afraid that Santa isn’t real, Héloïse makes a low noise of amusement. When Marianne looks, half a smile is peeking out from where she is leaning into her palm.

“When my sister found out that Santa wasn’t real,” Héloïse begins, taking the hand away, “She cried her eyes out,” turning to Marianne, “For hours. And wouldn’t speak to my mother for about a week.”

Héloïse’s sister. Marianne sits up, turning away from the screen for a moment, eyes wide and sympathetic for the situation Héloïse describes. “How did she find out?”

“She walked downstairs late on Christmas eve and found mum putting out the presents.”

Marianne winces, teeth bared. “That’s the worst.”

But Héloïse is smiling, finding it a fond memory. “I found out by extension of her rage,” she bends her head, scratching at the back of her neck. “What about you?”

“I asked,” Marianne recalls, and watches Héloïse’s eyebrows go up. “When I was about nine. First my brother and I guessed the tooth fairy, then the easter bunny. And we sort of figured that the chances of Santa being fake too were pretty high, so the pair of us confronted my parents. They told the truth, and I was a little disappointed but I got on with it.”

Héloïse shakes her head, amused, “You must have been the perfect child.”

Marianne scrunches her nose. “I was quiet,” she says, and rolls her eyes, “Some people think that makes children perfect. But this movie always made me cry, when I was little.”

Héloïse turns her attention back to the screen. Oscar the Grouch is singing in a bin. “Which part?”

“I’ll tell you when.”

About fifteen minutes pass. When Big Bird sits on the roof, an icicle hanging off his beak, Marianne feels her eyes prickling. She sniffs, and Héloïse turns her head. Eyes widening immediately.

“Hey!” Marianne sniffs again, but smiles at the sheer worry in Héloïse’s tone. The smile is not enough to console Héloïse, who leans over and reaches out with a hand. Wiping at Marianne’s now-wet nose, and the corners of her eyes. Marianne would protest, but it’s quite nice to have Héloïse’s hand on her face. “Are you alright?” asks Héloïse.

Marianne clears her throat. Somehow, she’s not embarrassed. Which is new. Maybe she’s embarrassed herself around Héloïse so much that, by now, she’s immune to it. “When I was a kid,” she tries to explain, “I think I cried because of how cold he looks?” she laughs, just slightly, an exhale and a grin. Marianne throws a hand up in the air. “Now it’s just nostalgia,” she wipes under her right eye once more, pulling her hand back to look at her finger. “I’m crying a lot over this week, aren’t I?” Marianne looks up to meet Héloïse’s eyes with a smile. “What am I like?”

Héloïse’s shoulders sag. “Wonderful,” she spills, her voice high, breathy, as though she had just been running and not sat here with Marianne for an hour. She opens her mouth, then closes it. Opens it again to stumble, “I think you’re… I’m not good with words.”

Marianne bursts with soft, lip-bitten laughter. “You’re a writer,” she says, as if Héloïse needs to be reminded.

“I’m good at writing words, not saying them,” Héloïse defends herself profusely. And then reaches, finding the curve of Marianne’s jaw, and the nape of her neck. Closer now, Marianne feeling the promise as Héloïse speaks it. “I’ll write you something.”

\--

Later, they eat at the small table. Noodles in the kind of silence that demands no intervention.

Marianne takes her fork and points it at Héloïse, squinting. “Answer me honestly,” she says.

Héloïse glances up, blinking and chewing. Her fork poised mid-air, above the bowl.

“Is there anything,” Marianne begins, “apart from that movie we just watched, and apart from snow, that you like about Christmas?”

Héloïse finishes chewing, and scrunches her nose and forehead, genuinely deep in thought. She winds some noodles carefully around her fork, and brings it to her mouth. Just as she’s cracking her lips open, Héloïse’s eyes brighten.

She pauses, pulling the fork away. “There is one thing,” she says, her tone of voice glittering. “Do you want to see?”

“Yes,” says Marianne.

Héloïse eats the forkful of noodles. “Okay,” she says when she’s swallowed it, “Hurry up and eat that, then. I don’t know what time the place closes at.”

\--

Marianne’s hat is not dry enough yet, or at least Marianne insists that it isn’t. But, stepping outside, the temperature is bearable. In fact, the snow atop Marianne’s car seems to be melting. And on the way up the road to the local town, a few cars roll past over thinning snow. There is slush piled against the curb.

Neither of them say much about it.

Some distance past the town, Héloïse reveals, is a supermarket and a playground, and… an ice rink.

An indoor ice rink. There are large windows to see in, to floundering skaters, and around the side are some metal stairs leading into the building. All the way up Marianne is babbling, “Ice skating? You like _ice skating?”_

Turns out that Héloïse likes ice skating enough to have befriended the staff, who greet her warmly as she and Marianne reach the desk after queuing for a short while. Héloïse navigates the place easily, bringing Marianne around by the hand after they buy tickets, towards the area where they can collect their skates. After Marianne has hers in hand, the pair of them sit down on the benches to put them on.

“This place pops up every year,” explains Héloïse brightly, strapping herself into the ice skates with ease. “From Halloween to New Years. So it’s not strictly Christmas, more like winter. But,” she gestures towards the corner of the room, where there’s a large, fake Christmas tree. “They do have that, so.”

“I don’t know how to skate,” Marianne bursts when she finally has the ice skates on. “I haven’t gone ice skating since I was ten. I went to a roller disco when I was fifteen but that’s about it.”

Héloïse, sat across from her on the other bench, lets out a breathy laugh, her bright eyes scrunched. She squints, and scoots forward, reaching over for Marianne’s un-gloved hands. “I’ll just have to show you, won’t I?” Héloïse says.

Marianne smiles at first, but then glances up, over Héloïse’s shoulder, through the door to the skating rink, where she can see older couples, families, one group of teenagers. Marianne feels a prickle of nervousness. “Will anyone be weird about it?” she asks, quieter, looking back to Héloïse.

“No,” Héloïse barely hesitates, and sounds confident. “I know pretty much everyone here. They’re either regulars here or they live back in the town. They’re all alright, the only thing that’ll surprise them is that I’m actually here with someone,” at Marianne’s squinting expression, Héloïse throws one hand up in the air. “I’m serious, look,” and points over Marianne’s shoulder. Marianne turns to see two old men leaning against the wall near the Christmas tree, chatting to each other, shoulders touching. “Those two have been together for forty-five years,” says Héloïse.

Marianne lets out a low laugh, “What the fuck is this gay haven?”

“I know,” Marianne turns, seeing Héloïse’s smile, “It’s a good place to be,” she meets Marianne’s eyes, “Why, do want to move in?”

She says it in jest, and then immediately seems to panic. Flushing pink, sucking in her bottom lip. Héloïse hardly seems to notice Marianne’s amused and pleased expression, instead leaning back, letting go of her grip on Marianne and slapping her knees. “Come on, I’m not letting you stall any longer.”

\--

Héloïse is very good at skating. She probably wouldn’t fall at all if Marianne did not refuse to let go of Héloïse. Or rather, if Héloïse did not refuse to let go of Marianne.

There is one moment where Marianne is clinging to the side of the rink, catching her breath, and watching Héloïse spin around. Gliding effortlessly, swerving past people. Casting glances at Marianne every now and then, and looking away, bashful, each time she realises that Marianne is already watching her.

Marianne does get somewhat of a hang of it eventually. Enough to skate at a reasonable pace and not crash into any children. Listening to some generic pop song and to the skidding on the ice, the shouts of children. Holding tight to Héloïse’s hand all the while.

\--

After they hobble out to get their shoes, and after Héloïse bids the staff goodbye and happy holidays, Marianne kisses Héloïse in the dark outside the ice rink.

“You were so good at that,” she says quietly.

Héloïse makes a low, breathy noise. “I wish they had it all year around,” she says, but sounds distracted. Héloïse picks up Marianne’s wrist like is it something precious, made of china. “Will we go back?”

They walk back, down the long, patchy street, through a town falling quiet underneath the night. And again past the trees, the library. Cars roll past with headlights on, blaring yellow through the darkness.

They are talking quietly about roller discos when they turn in to the path down to Héloïse’s house. And at the end of the way, there is a black car. Free of snow, unlike Marianne’s, and parked at an awkward slant. The pair fall quiet when they see that someone is at the front door.

Hard too see from afar – a short figure, hands in pockets, bobbing up and down. Héloïse quickens her pace, and Marianne follows suit, peering through the darkness. The figure must hear the footsteps, as they turn around. Coming into view as they walk over, and Marianne makes out blonde curls, a square face. Eyes downturned at the outer corners, and a small, open mouth asking, “Héloïse?”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song ‘Somewhere a star shines for everyone’ that features in the movie ‘The Bear’ based off the book by Raymond Briggs.  
> I initially wanted to post this chapter by chapter on the days leading up to Christmas as a present for yis but I don’t think that’s possible anymore because wow I’m busy!!! So I’ll start posting now and I won’t stress myself out. It’s a bit of fun.


End file.
